The snout of the Coleman Glacier.
Mt Baker, North Ridge
Saturday/Sunday, July 31-August 1, 2004.. With Alex M.
On the drive in, as Alex drove and I browsed the route books and maps, the question came up: what does Nooksak (Nooksak river, Nooksak tower, Nooksak falls) mean? I didn't know, and Beckey doesn't seem to say, so at the ranger station I asked. Turns out the Nooksak Indians were from around there, and the name comes from their name for the bracken fern, that tall weedy fern that I'm always pulling from my garden, but who's roots were an important food source. So I learned something, and now you have too.
There were dozens of cars at the trailhead lined up and down the road; evidently it was quite the popular destination this weekend. Some of them proved to be day hikers. We passed at least a dozen people the first mile, hikers and climbers, but after that, the trail got much less busy.
On the hike in, I was surprised to see astilbe growing along the trail. I had no idea it was a wild plant, it's one of the classic shade garden plants. But it's everywhere up there, four feet tall. The wildflowers generally were in bloom, very pretty, a lot like last year. And, the hike up the steep gravel trail between Glacier Vista and the snow was as difficult as ever.
This trail is called Heliotrope Ridge, which suggests (to me, anyhow) that there ought to be heliotropes up there. But my research suggests that heliotropes are a tropical flower, and not local. The color of the flowers, though, a reddish purple, is also called heliotrope, and perhaps it's in reference to the colors you sometimes see in the deep sunset.
Alex was having some trouble with his boots, and had blisters on both heels. He was afraid he might have to bail out, but I had some moleskin in my first aid kit, and got it out for him, and it proved perfect. I've been aware of it for years, of course, but have never had the opportunity to use it, and and haven't even been particularly aware of what it was for, besides something to do with feet. It's very smooth, and keeps the friction of the sock from causing or worsening blisters. Get some.
Medical care finished, we headed off up the Coleman Glacier route, then traversed to the left towards our objective. As soon as we left the main route, though, we were in a world of our own, and it could have been a climb of fifty years ago, we were so totally isolated. We couldn't even see any tents from our campsite, and no footprints until we got to the upper mountain.
It was rather slow going, meandering around the crevasses (and down into one) along the Coleman. We left the car around 12:30, and got to the base of the North Ridge by about 5:00. And, were pretty appalled by the condition. The illustration in Beckey shows a moderately steep crevassed glacier route, rather like Adams Glacier, but what we saw was a chaos of icefall, a completely broken up glacier, a small version of pictures you see of the Khumbu Icefall. Maybe it's different earlier in the year, but it's hard to see that it could ever get back to the condition shown in the photo. We were thinking that maybe the route just wouldn't go, and discussed a few alternatives, including traversing back around the cockscomb and doing the Park Glacier/ Cockscomb route.
After staring at the mess for a while, we found a good bivy spot back behind some crevasses, which looked like they'd protect us from any moderate rock or ice fall, and set up camp and had dinner. Because we were carrying over, we brought bivvy sacks, my preferred method of camping these days. Alex doesn't have one, so I borrowed one from Lee for him. It's much, much nicer than mine, very spiffy. My bivvy sack, a hand-me-down from my brother, looks homemade by comparison, but while it doesn't have a pole and insect netting, it does have a zipper down the side, which is handy.
To save weight, Alex didn't bring a sleeping bag either, since he doesn't own a lightweight one; he brought a light fleece blanket. Turned out to be a bad idea, at least in a bivvy sack; he was cold and shivvering most of the night.
As night fell, the lights up the valley came out, and it was rather pretty. I guess you can see all the way to Bellingham, or maybe Birch Bay, from this side of the mountain, and I think I saw some lights on Vancouver Island (Nanaimo?)
One advantage of a bivvy sack is that when you wake up in the middle of the night, you can look out at the stars. At midnight, though, the stars weren't very impressive at all. Part of it may have been the haze, and part the nearly-full moon still hidden behind the mountain, but the stars weren't any more impressive than they are at home. So I gave up and went back to sleep.
We got up about 5:00, and were packed and moving by about 5:30. We had identified a potential route, and headed for it.
Things got technical in a hurry. What had looked like a steep snow slope was actually steep water ice. I got to take the lead, placed my first-ever ice screw, chopped a few steps, and headed up, scared as hell. I placed another screw about 30 feet up to rest on, then made my way up to a narrow ice gully with a perfectly flat floor, a very secure belay station. I rigged up an absolutely bomber belay with a picket that I chopped out a channel for and wedged in sideways. (It was so good, I could hardly get it out afterwards.)
Alex climbed past me, and took most of the 50m rope. He was directly above me chopping away at the ice, and an absolute snowstorm was coming down on me standing there in my little cleft. I'd taken off my shell, and was standing there in just my smartwool shirt, deluged in ice chips, down my neck and everywhere. ALWAYS wear a jacket with a hood when you're belaying ice climbing.
Then I came after him, pulled the screws he'd left (one was mine, brand-new with a brand-new sling, and which I somehow managed to drop after I was sure I had clipped it into my harness. If I had to drop a piece of gear, I'm glad it was mine.)
The pitches seemed to blend into one another. It was steep, desparately steep and difficult in my aluminum crampons, and if it weren't for the direness of descending, I'd have voted to bail. But I knew for a fact that downclimbing this stuff would be suicide, for me anyhow, and I don't know if we had enough gear to leave behind to rapel our way down. So, it was onward, and upward.
We (Alex) had to rig some pretty exposed and uncomfortable belay stations, where the belayer had to crouch there, one foot or the other cramping up while you handle the rope and wonder what the hell is taking him so long. This wasn't so bad when the belay station was in the sun, but one in particular was in the shade under a dripping serac, and protecting a difficult traverse, and I was shivvering miserably before Alex called for me to come on.
The last ice pitch Alex led and when I passed him he looked absolutely miserable, crouched there in the shade, hanging off a couple of screws, so as soon as I got around the corner to easier ground, and in the sun, I put in a belay, a couple of pickets, and brought him around. It took longer to pull the rope than it had to make the traverse from his belay station to mine.
One surprise was that there were some footprints in the snow leading up from here. These cheered me greatly, and they ended up leading us up to and around the bergschrund. They could only have been a couple of days old. Thanks, whoever you were.
From here, the route eased up greatly, neither as steep nor as icy as before. We did a couple more pitches, which I lead, and they took pickets rather than screws to protect. It's funny how I'd be there belaying Alex up, and he'd come up panting and looking all wrung out, and I'd think, geez, he's really suffering, then I'd head up for the next pitch, and in 30 feet I'd be panting as bad as him.
This climb feels more like a Rainier route than a Baker route, it just goes and goes, and each time you think you must be getting to the summit dome, there's another ice obstacle. The difference is that the obstacles are fifty yards apart rather than a hundred yards, so it does go more quickly. Towards the top, I began to smell sulfur, and figured it couldn't be much longer now.
Following below the bergschrund, looking for a break.
The last of the apparently unsurmountable obstacles was the bergschrund, which appeared to bound the entire north side of the mountain, and was both deep and overhanging on the uphill side. Our faithful footsteps followed under it to the west, so we followed, to find the one spot where the bergschrund was narrow and collapsed, and we could climb through it. Then on, and on, and we were on the enormous summit dome.
We didn't slog all the way to the true summit (the dirt hill on the east end) but we took pictures up there, melted a bit more snow, then headed over to the standard route for the descent.
The route down was in a bit better condition than when I was up here in mid-August last year, not nearly so icy. Still, there were some icy spots, and there was some security to being roped. Down to the dirt/rock cleaver, where we unroped and got rid of our crampons, and then down to the base of it where we came upon three people (a father and two kids in their early 20's?) who were just heading up, and considering camping on the summit, which sounded pretty cool to me.
The hike out is a long, meandering one, winding around crevasses, up and around and over and down, until finally we were down off the snow (we got to foot-glissade a lot of the last bit) and unroped to head out.
For some reason, I was not nearly as tired and grouchy as I should have been, and felt inordinately pleased with the beauty of the surroundings: the deep green of the trees, the waterfalls flowing out from under the glacier snout and down glacier-polished rock, the wildflowers in bloom, all of it just seemed so beautiful, particularly in the light of the setting sun, that I was more interested in gazing around than in swearing at my tired feet and the steep, rocky trail. When the trail crosses that creek (Kulshan Creek?) I sat and waited for Alex, and just basked in the beauty of the wild flowers, the giardia-laced water burbling over the rocks, north in the distance the silhouette of some mountain purple in the twilight.
It was full dark by the time we got back to the car, after 10:00. Fortunately we both had headlamps; I only needed mine for the last twenty minutes or so. Then we changed, headed down the road to the ranger station to sign out, got some fast food in Bellingham, and headed south. Alex drove much of the way home, and it was awfully nice to lay back and close my eyes. I was dozing in and out, until Alex had to pull over somewhere north of Mount Vernon because he was falling asleep, and I got to drive the rest of the way, wiping water on my face to keep my eyes open.
The next day I was in better shape than I'd feared; my left middle finger was kind of sore and swollen, a consequence of bashing it repeatedly into the ice, while using my straight-shafted ice tool.
Equipment notes: I brought my aluminum crampons, and they were completely inadequate for the ice climbing. The front points aren't long or sharp enough to penetrate into the ice; I ended up having to use the side points, which isn't nearly as secure.
I used one straight-shaft ice tool and my regular long ice axe. I was surprised at how well the ice axe worked. It seemed to work best with the leash out, so I could swing it from near the end. Still, if I was going to make a career of ice climbing, I'd need some proper tools.