MT. ST. HELENS / WORM FLOWS ROUTE

 

Perry’s partner Sophie and I had been floating the idea of climbing and skiing Helens for a few weeks before our plans finally solidified around Saturday, April 2nd. We quickly added Sophie’s friend Lindsay to our numbers, and eventually, my sister Bridget agreed to join in as well, with all of us planning on meeting at Marble Mountain Sno-Park on Friday night. 

I informed Sophie and Lindsay that they’d be able to spot us in Bridget’s giant white Ford F150, and by 11:30 pm they had found me trying to figure out how to turn the lights off in the cab of the truck. We agreed on a 4 a.m. wake-up time before I ended up lying mostly sleepless on the platform bed in the back of the truck, listening to rain hit the topper, and hoping that things would get less miserable in the morning. 

4 a.m. saw my hopes largely answered, as the rain was gone, and it wasn’t too cold out. We were slow to leave the truck, especially due to Bridget realizing her avalanche backpack was barely going to hold all the essentials for the day. But eventually, we made our way out onto the trail and started the skin up.

We passed numerous groups on the way up the wide road-like trail, stopping only once to leukotape a hot spot on Bridget’s foot. We left the trees to find ourselves in the early morning glow. The sky was still overcast, but we could make out the line of climbers ahead of us, many of whom started to boot up the steeper slopes. 

There were a lot of firsts on the way up. Bridget got to use crampons for the first time, after deciding that the ski crampons she’d borrowed from her housemate weren’t enough traction; and I got to skin up a significant amount of the mountain with ski crampons on, only packing the skis up in a few places where the steeps made my kick turns feel extra spicy.

As we got midway up the mountain we entered the conga line of climbers, some of whom knew Lindsay. The sky cleared up above us, but we could see the top of the cloud cover stretching out like a blanket, pierced here and there by Rainier, Adams, and Hood.

By the time we reached the top there were about twenty climbers eating snacks, taking photos, and procrastinating from transitioning into ski mode. We did more or less the same, being sure to get some shots of the steaming chasm below the rim. No one felt particularly inclined to move to the true summit, a few hundred feet away, and so we fiddled around removing skins and stomping into bindings before starting the ski down.

The first third of the mountain was all hardpack, and Bridget and I again split off to go chase powder stashes on the way down. Eventually, we found ourselves with a large bowl splitting us from Lindsay and Sophie, and after skiing to the bottom, I did my best to point them to the least steep place to enter. 

As we regrouped we reached the warmer slushier snow, which made for some decent turns as we reached the bottom of the volcano. A climber gave us directions on navigating through the ridges of rock, and we navigated back to the same trail we took up. Only a few pushes were necessary on the long gentle slide back to our cars.

MT. HOOD / NORTH FACE RIGHT GULLY

Mt. Hood has been hovering near the top of my list since I moved to Portland in 2019 and every time I brought up climbing it my friend Perry responded with ‘North Face Right Gully.’ Having never summited Hood, and having virtually no experience on ice, it felt somewhat bold to go for one of the steeper, tougher lines on the mountain, on the steepest toughest face. 

However, we were both tempted by a perfect weather window, and Perry had managed to both inflate my confidence and whittle down my fears over a few weeks until I finally agreed. Our plan was to skin into the Cooper Spur shelter and either stay inside or bivy nearby, before catching a few hours of sleep and starting for the summit at around 3 a.m.

Neither of us was particularly familiar with the terrain on the north side of Hood and we took the Pollalie Ridge Trail starting around 8 p.m. We’d learn later that this was absolutely not the efficient way to the shelter, but it looked direct on the map, and we both neglected to investigate the Tilly Jane Ski Trail much. 

We are both fairly incompetent on the skin track, and the conditions were about as poor as could be, so the night consisted of painful slide backs, negotiating our way through trees, and at one point hunting for Perry’s helmet after it flew off his pack down a steep hill (which was discovered in a tree well by some small miracle.)

Arriving at the shelter, we discovered it was almost completely filled with snow. However, there was a ten-inch gap between the rough stone wall and the rubber mat of a door and we managed to squeeze through and dig out a platform to sleep on.

After a few hours of circling the drain of REM sleep, but never quite plunging in, it was time to go. The wind had been howling all night, but we emerged to find it had relaxed somewhat and the night was cool but not frigid. The approach from the shelter was straightforward and the sun began to emerge just as we reached the bergschrund. 

We were fortunate to find a snow bridge that got us easily over the bergschrund, and then it was just a short, steep snow climb to the first pitch of ice. I was admittedly nervous at this point, but Perry seemed confident and the sun was up, so we proceeded quickly. 

The ice was in great condition and I had watched just enough ‘Ice Climbing Tips’ videos on Youtube to follow up the first two pitches without getting completely pumped out. Having made it up the first ice step, we decided to simul-climb the steep snow in an effort to save time. Even this early in the climb we were getting nervous about how late it was, and how short a window we had in January. 

Even though we made quick work of the steep snow, we were approaching our estimated summit time with still half the route left. Feeling that bailing down the steep snow was going to be more challenging than topping out and dealing with the consequences, we decided to keep going. 

Hoping to find an easier route to the summit, Perry made a play to climb up the rockier ridge on the side of the gully, only to find that it didn’t go. At this point, things were looking pretty desperate, and we both knew we needed to get to the summit before dark. After traversing back to the main line, Perry pushed hard and fast up a final stretch of hard icy snow and set a belay just below the final step of ice.

 

It was clear that the gully wasn’t going to let us finish easily, and this last pitch of ice was steeper and sketchier than everything before it. Still, Perry led the pitch like a champ, and I could hear him call out ‘fuck yeah dude’ from the top, hopefully signaling that we’d made it through the worst. As I reached the top of the ice I could see that all we had left was a couple hundred feet of low-angle climbing. 

The snow had a thick icy crust that took tools well so we simuled our way into the nook of one of the large stone blocks near the summit. Perry had tucked the belay against the rock face to try and keep us out of the howling wind. It took virtually all my willpower to push up the last few pitches of steep snow, especially with the wind doing everything it could to blow us off the mountain, but finally, I reached the lip of the summit and pulled up and onto the crystalline top of Hood, lit pink-gold with the setting sun.

Sitting at the top, we knew we had to make it down quickly, and all of the routes that would lead us back to the shelter were likely too sketchy to downclimb in the dark. We made the call to arrange a ride from Timberline and come back for the gear we left at the shelter the next day.

Exhausted, we worked our way down Hogsback. The benefits of Perry's dedicated training regimen were made clear, as I hobbled behind him, doing my best to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Timberline was lit up in the clear night sky and lay at the bottom of the hill, though it barely seemed to get closer. Finally, we stumbled down to the lodge and made our way into the Wy’east Cafe to drink vending machine beverages and be stared at by a family of skiers. 

I woke up the next morning to find my legs to be a cocktail of pain and gelatin. However, we managed to bolster ourselves with breakfast burritos and set off to reclaim our gear from the shelter. Again, time was our enemy, and it was getting dark by the time we made it up to the shelter, and an icy, night ski down Tilly Jane awaited us. Fortunately, the side-slipping marathon was short, and we reached the car by 6:30, feeling we’d finally put an end to the trip.