Thunderstruck

13-16 January, 2007

Winter makes everything so difficult. The days are short. Conditions become more dangerous and unpredictable. The probability of success plummets with the temperature. So why bother enduring big trips during winter? Because the rewards are huge. The world becomes fresh and new under a pristine, white blanket.

There are many ways to fail. This time, it came down to two. That was my estimate. At two miles per hour - a rather torpid pace, n'est-ce pas? - we should have been able to reach our departure point from the trail (near Park Creek Pass) from the Thunder Creek trailhead (by Diablo Lake) in eight hours. Then three hours to climb less than three-thousand vertical feet should put us above the Wyeth Glacier and ready to ski into the North Fork of Bridge Creek after eleven hours of toil. It gets dark at five in the afternoon, so we should start by six in the morning.

You're not falling for this, are you?

Dangerous maneuvers like this, near McCallister Camp, slow progress.

New rule: In winter, with heavy packs, estimate ten miles per day, plus an extra day for any objective.

RP manages to smile even though Buckner looks so far away.

Fourteen miles in ten hours put us at the beginning of the flats in the upper Thunder Creek basin. Exhausted, we slept well past sunrise the next morning. Still five miles from Park Creek Pass and obviously a day short for any realistic attempt at the most hallowed of north faces, we ditched the rope gear. Six pounds lighter and full of Starbucks Sumatra, we optimistically shifted the goal to one of the evil, enticing east faces above Park Creek Pass.

Thunder Creek had its way with us.

Fleeing dejected objectives


Mid-afternoon saw our new objectives obliterated. "Whoa, that looks pretty gnarly," we gawked at formidable faces ravaged with rock-rashes. Thoroughly stulitified and demoralizingly denied, we chased the sun. The fleeting sun raised our flagging spirits once again. We recalibrated to head for Mt Logan.

Using precious sun to save the skins

RP breaks trail toward Colorado.

After a brutal bout with some downright Coloradan terrain and conditions, we had a bit of an argument as we pitched camp that evening.

RP
"Mt Logan sucks. There's nothing cool about it. It's not even plan B, it's plan G. I'd rather go home than have some epic trying to do Mt Logan."

SS
"Ahh, but you've forgotten the joy of skiing. How awesome is it that we could still salvage a summit from this trip?"

RP
"There is no salvaging the trip. We came here to try something really cool. That didn't work. ...."

SS
"Shut up and drink this whiskey."

Mt Logan epitomizes the mountaineering experience. It requires a full bag of skills to routefind, snowclimb, and scramble to the top of its broad, lumbering massif, from which one espies some of the choicest views in the Cascades. However, RP does not think of himself as a mountaineer - neither does SS, for that matter.

The third morning of the trip dawned cold, clear, and calm. Peaks and glaciers were ogled, the original objective was observed, and there was no debate about whether to try for the summit after gaining a view into the North Fork of Bridge Creek from a ridge above the southern portion of the Fremont Glacier. We enjoyed wonderful wind-packed powder to camp, awesome powder in a gully to the forest above Thunder Creek, then the worst crust skiing we've ever experienced with heavy packs down to Skagit Queen.

That's it: the big payoff

Sunrise on Mt Buckner

Teh Sickness

The real sickness.

During the day's last descent to Tricouni Camp, my left big toe continually throbbed and tears welled in my eyes. Given my newfound pain and RP's ridiculously gargantuan Bora 80 pack, we both agreed that we felt like Hummels.

The next morning greeted us with several inches of new snow. At least it didn't rain on us.

Where's that confounded bridge?

Diablo Lake snow?

It's nice to find a keg of beer on your porch when you get home.