I've never really been afraid of the third dimension. I seem to enjoy snaking my way onto the most perilous precipices, dangling from ropes above a voracious ocean, and carving the steepest uncharted snow drifts with little trepidation. And so when the opportunity came to summit Oregon's most idyllic sculpture, Mount Hood, my crampons were strapped and hungry.
At 11,249 feet, Mount Hood is a modest climb compared to Earth's other vertical challenges. Yet, I am a mountaineer neophyte. And an informed neophyte at that, taking careful note of the frequent rescue operations that too often end in tragedy (For example). There is an amplitude with Mount Hood that eclipses its taunting 11,249 foot summit, and that is its capricious temperament. With Mother Pacific just beyond the western view from the summit, the weather on Mount Hood is notorious for changing rapidly and unpredictably. Too often is the 11,249 foot elevation of Mount Hood considered a "walk," only to leave even the most experienced mountaineers in an icy coffin (see Mount Hood Climbing Accidents). That said, the Pacific Northwest's glorious summers provide a much more placid, predictable climbing experience provided one has the proper gear and experience -- something I entrusted to the tutelage of a friend-of-a-good-friend mountaineer, Erik.
Departing from Timberline Lodge (elevation 5960 feet), Saturday, July 12th at 2:15 AM, Erik, Jamin, Nate, Dane (my brother), and myself sauntered up the moonless, snowy slopes leaving only the stars as our humble witnesses. Eventually dawn crept over the northeastern horizon casting the most commanding shadow I've ever seen. Its blackened nose dominated the western earth from the nearby Cascades all the way to insignificant Portland in the distant; we were but where light met dark. Soon daylight had overcome darkness and Oregon from above was in full view. To the east was the dusty high desert, to the south was Mount Jefferson and its fraternity of snowcapped peaks, and to the west was Portland's "skyscrapers" reflecting the sun like a satellite from space. Near midpoint up at Illumination Rock we paused to refuel our ambitions with food and water and deposit our snowboards and skis for a victory lap upon the descent. Unfortunately, it was also here that we left my brother due to various physical limitations, namely his horrendously sunburned feet from a beach trip the day before.
Our next checkpoint was Crater Rock, a large, smoldering cylindrical rock that satisfies its name with noxious fumes escaping from its depths. In fact, there was one climber vomiting from the sulphur-laden air as he tried to move onward toward the summit. I pretended not to notice. Moving around Crater Rock unscathed, it was time for our team to fasten ourselves to each other's harnesses and each other's trust. The traditional summit route known as the "Pearly Gates" is no longer an option for most climbers, as the mountain shifted in 2007 transforming that route into an ice wall requiring screws, skills, and doughty -- none of which I possessed that day. The alternative route, known as the "Old Chute," is less steep, but longer and more technical (or so I hear). Our pace slowed to a crawl at this point, requiring much more mental than physical stamina. Every step was a meticulous decision, as perfunctoriness would surely favor gravity. "Look, grip, step, test step, repeat..." was the mantra. An added, albeit unanticipated obstacle was the ice shrapnel bowling down from other climbers as they step upward -- looking upward could leave a polished black eye as an artifact. As we approached the 11,249 foot trophy, I was surprised to learn just how narrow the summit was -- about three feet. I slowly peer over the edge and realize that this emaciated rocky "ledge" is my counterbalance to a 1000 foot skydive into an icy abyss. Like an anxious cat in a tree, I perched atop the summit of Mount Hood to take in my prize: the view from the top of Oregon.
I soon am told that the proper summit is beyond a rocky mound (see neighboring photo) and about a 100 yards along a ridge. But after clumsily stabbing myself four times with my crampons (on the snow, no less), I wasn't about to straddle a thin rocky margin to gain another 50 vertical feet; in fact, none of us were terribly excited about this idea and were perfectly content at roughly 11,200 feet. Our stay in the heavens was brief as the sun quickly angled upon our decent to warm the snow and thereby melt our security. For the descent Erik pulled out a mysterious three-foot-long aluminum rod, hammered it into the snow, attached a rope, and announced that we would be belaying ourselves off the slope. ...Awesome! Nate was our first descendent, following all 90 meters of rope to the bottom of the steepest segment. Then Jamin and I followed with a very short rope intimately hugging the larger 90 meter rope. The concept: falling will immediately tighten the short rope around the big rope and prevent a fall before it happens. Brilliant! Erik, being the fearless professional, was the last to descend and simply skirted down with no rope and no problem.
From here, the return to Earth was as pleasant as any other Sunday constitutional. Sporting only a tee-shirt and
sunscreen in 70-degree sunshine, I casually strolled into our base camp near Illumination Rock to summon my brother and my snowboard. The rest, simply put, was less like a walk and more like a breeze.
(...oh, and the post-summit beer in the Timberline Lodge was probably the best brew I've tasted in a long, long while)
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