Glacier Peak: The Redirect

Jack flew into Seattle and it was go time. We had been discussing Mount Rainier for some time. I had a newfound but unjustified sense of confidence from my previous climbs. The piece I didn’t account for is that this was about to be nothing like my previous climbs. Mount Rainier is serious territory. People die every year. Half or more of the groups that go for it fail each year. Small mistakes have big consequences. When Jack made it in, a storm was already swirling through the Ashford area.

We discussed the plan. We knew the window would be small, and our time was limited around his travel itinerary. My thought: let’s get up there, get camped or in the shelter, wait out the storm, and summit when the coast is clear. What could go wrong with this birdbrained idea of heading up into one of the harshest storms of the summer over Mount Rainier?

July 2023

The veto

We arrived at the Ranger station. I wasn’t sure where to go, but I eventually realized it was the small little wooden structure off the beaten path away from the visitor center. My months of experience were shining through. We had driven through wind, rain, and hail to get to the Paradise area. Rainier wasn’t even visible on the drive up. Anyone who has been to Mount Rainier National Park knows how hard that is to imagine. The prominent peak is in your face most of the time on the approach toward the parking lot. It’s hard to miss. And yet, it was totally obscured by the weather. Surely a good sign of a welcoming mountain.

In my endless depths of knowledge, I hadn’t considered that we potentially wouldn’t get a walk-up permit to camp at Camp Muir overnight. Ignorance is bliss, I guess. Oh, but what luck! You wouldn’t believe it, but they had almost EVERY permit spot available for that night. I wonder why?! Most definitely it couldn’t be the 80+ mph winds recorded at Muir, or the onslaught of rain and snow showering them.

We had a discussion with the Ranger, which is normal. She gave us the full rundown of the route and made us aware of the current conditions. She showed us the weather readings from Muir, an astonishing 82 mph gust had been recorded. If you’ve ever felt a 45 mph gust on a mountain (I hadn’t at the time), you would shake the Ranger’s hand and go get back in your car. But, ignorance is bliss, right? She even gave us the permit for two nights for free and wished us the best of luck. Lastly, she advised us that there would be no SAR efforts given the current conditions if something happened. I turned to Jack, who looked a bit pale.

We walked back to the truck, permit in hand, and ready to discuss. We checked weather models. The storm was set to pass and be done by tonight. I genuinely felt we would be in for a slog to Muir, but that it would be fine. Jack felt quite the opposite. We sat in the car, prepared to pack up and get going. “I’m pulling the veto.” In climbing, at least in any respectable party, any member has the power to veto the climb. You live and die as a team, and if one person isn’t willing to go, that usually means the rest of the team is heading back too. From the trailhead, the rest may go still, but during the climb, that veto means you’re done. Or that person is in for a very long day anchored safely to a rock while the rest of the party climbs. Different strokes for different folks, and it totally depends on the conditions, climb, and situation.

I was genuinely upset. We had planned this for months. I felt like it would go. I knew it was July, the storm would break, the weather would be super chill, and we could bag this thing together. I didn’t work hard to convince him, that’s not my cup of tea. If someone doesn’t want to do something, that’s their prerogative. I’m not going to interfere with their fate or their decision, usually. I felt frizzled and frazzled and stewed a bit. We went back to my apartment to come up with a new plan. This might be the Achilles heel to my Washington Big 5 for 2023. If we didn’t go now, I wasn’t sure how long Rainier would last in the summer heat.

The redirect

This gave Jack and I a chance to catch up, which was something we were long overdue for. He told me about his developing career with the USN, and I shared how life was going in the private sector. We had started in very similar spots but ended up in quite different ones. The idea finally came to me. “Dude, what about Glacier Peak?” I don’t think Jack cared much for the idea at first. It’s a slog. By the standards of summits I have currently bagged, it is way outside my comfort zone. Jack and I had trained a lot together for the Navy, and I knew he could handle it. I also knew Jack could deal with the suck. I had to help him understand what Glacier Peak was, that it was one of the Big 5, a major objective in Washington, and arguably the best adventure of the five. Rainier gets all the sparkles and pizzazz, but Glacier is the real volcano adventure in Washington. Jack was in, and we still had time. Let’s send it.

The point of telling this is to highlight a hard lesson learned: my reaction was immature and foolish. Thank God for Jack. My bird-brained plan to summit in the present conditions was undeniably one of the stupidest plans I had ever come up with. Subjecting someone else to that plan was even stupider, even if he was tough. Crevasses may have been lightly covered, weak snow bridges hidden, and all kinds of potential for late-season wind slabs or other unpredictable features and risks. And then us two bozos on a rope thinking we could do it. Jack had the right mindset, and the right instincts. Fear is the mind killer in the moment, but at the right times fear is a life preserver.

The approach

Glacier Peak it was. It is one of the most remote peaks in Washington, and you can feel every mile of that. You eventually reach some forest roads on the approach that would give city code enforcement a heart attack. The potholes are massive, wide, deep, and full of water so you can’t even tell. There are hundreds. The truck was taking a beating. Slowly but surely, we made it to the trailhead.

The North Fork Sauk trailhead. The start of the long walk in.

Armed with my sister’s old camera (some of the vintage pictures from Mount Adams are the same camera), I began shooting immediately. The approach starts off in beautiful cedar old growth through the Glacier Peak Wilderness. You get unreal river views along the North Fork Sauk River Trail until you finally reach some switchbacks and begin your ascent toward the Pacific Crest Trail. Jack and I were moving solid, with no breaks in mind. We hadn’t exactly started super early in the day, and with our heavy packs, we were making good time but unsure of how far we would go. We came across a bunch of little snakes slithering around the edges of the trail, lots of pikas, birds, and all sorts of marmots. Butterflies were everywhere. It was kind of like a fairytale, crossing an old wooden bridge along the forest. And we were only just getting started.

The log bridge over Red Creek, about 3.5 miles in.

We were only just getting started. Jack and I were 5 or so miles in, starting these switchbacks. So far it had been a relatively flat stroll with ever so gradual incline through the old growth forest. We crossed the log bridge across Red Creek at 3.5 miles, and later arrived at the old Mackinaw shelter site around 5 miles. From here, we were in for it with a long series of switchbacks. I turned my brain off and started ticking them off turn by turn. We would gain around 3,000 feet in 3 miles here, and then the trail would spit us out on a junction with the glorious PCT. We were over 8 miles in at this point. We still had not even seen Glacier Peak. Not even the tip. Nothing. We were beginning to wonder if it was really out there. The next waypoint we were headed for was White Pass.

Jack ticking off the switchbacks, and me taking a well-earned dirtnap once they let up.

Glacier Peak appears

The trail really opened up here, out and above the treeline. We were surrounded on the single-track PCT by every type of alpine wildflower you can think of. It was amazing. The winds were gently blowing the long blades of grass and flowers along the luscious terrain. Marmots were scattered about, one brave one even standing his ground on the trail. We weren’t sure he would let us pass, but eventually he gave in. Some of the storm was carrying over toward us along our path now, and we started getting gently rolling clouds and moisture over the ridges. The geography was impressive, and we were fortunate to witness so much diversity in weather and biology across the terrain. As we kept moving along this incredible ridge, it finally happened. Glacier Peak appeared.

Single-track and mountains under moody skies. The weather was turning on us and we started wondering what we were in for.

First just the tip over the ridge, then the whole thing. Dakobed, the mother mountain, finally showing herself.

Subalpine meadows the whole way up, the shaggy ones are western pasqueflower gone to seed. Jack pushing toward White Pass as the clouds moved in on us.

Jack out in the alpine meadows, and the North Fork Sauk River valley falling away behind us, the whole drainage we’d climbed all day.

Miles of single-track PCT threading the ridge. Hard to complain about an office like this.

My happy place. Cruising toward White Pass.

Probably lost in my head, right in my happy place on that single-track.

Earth, when people aren’t building Walmarts on it.

We were at White Pass, and honestly it was stunning. Glacier Peak is really an underwhelming name for such an epic peak. From forest, to meadows and alpine traverses, Jack and I were now going to descend into a rocky basin. The fog was rolling in, and we felt a little bit of rain. In an instant, I felt as though I was transported to another planet. White rocks, snow, running water. All the green was gone, and now we had dirt, gray skies, and big round rocks. Glacial blue tarns were scattered around. We pressed forward. As the fog crawled through, our visibility was lowering. Glacier Peak disappeared in the distance. Okay, back to reality. We are about 12 miles into this. The path isn’t clear anymore, just a general direction. We weren’t sure what this weather change was, as we were expecting clear skies. Time to start looking for a place to camp. I am not a big fan of wandering around in low visibility. We donned our headlamps and got the red lights on.

Next level unlocked. Into the fray to find camp, wondering if we were even still on Earth.

The fog rolling into the gray basin of ice and rock. All the green vanished in a matter of minutes.

Rocks, snow, and glacial tarns. Jack caught a reflection of the peak in one of them before the fog swallowed it.

Socked in and gray. It really did feel like a whole new planet out there.

Glacial tarns scattered through the basin. The little one on the right became Jack’s favorite water source.

There was beauty in the little streams running all through the basin.

A boulder bivy

We found a huge boulder with a flat little bivy spot and some wind protection. Over 13 miles in now. We knew we still had a long way to go, both in distance and especially vertically, but we were tuckered out from the long approach and ready for some dinner. We quickly assembled camp and dinners. We were working well as a team, and soon were both perched on rocks chowing down on some calories. We were careful to hang everything on the side of the boulder with some protection. We had already spotted a few mice and knew our bags might have holes in the morning if we weren’t careful. Time to knock out for a few.

Base camp, tucked in behind the big boulder for a little wind protection.

Indian paintbrush right by camp, then the red lights on once the fog set in for the first night.

We planned an alpine ascent, but when I awoke, we were totally socked in. Worse than the previous night. In hindsight, these were elite conditions. Had we pushed, we would have probably ascended with a world-class cloud inversion. But I thought it was indicative of a weather system, and we decided to hunker down and get some more rest. We finally saw some sunlight, and still a good bit of fog, but decided it was time to go. That is the single piece of this trip I would change: get up and send it. If we would have punched through that weather, we would have had blessed views. Oh well.

Onto the glaciers

We scrambled over a flowing glacial stream with loose rock and lots of big boulders, and eventually we arrived back on a recognizable trail. And woah, we stumbled upon where everyone else was wise enough to camp. This high camp was above the clouds and littered with good spots. Angled perfectly too, for incredible sunrise and sunset views over valleys on both sides. Wow. If I ever go back here I am staying there for sure.

Walking through no man’s land to start summit day, Jack topping off water at the tarn before the climb.

Summit day start. Thanks for the stellar photo, Jacky boy.

Mountains and lakes for days once we got up high and above the clouds.

Me out in the glacier meadows, soaking it in.

The clouds finally cleared out. Wild to see the terrain we’d been fogged into, and so peaceful up there it felt like another world.

Reflections of Dakobed in a still tarn.

It would have cost us another hour or more to get there with our heavy packs (and a lot more time back with all that gear too), but worth it for the photos. After some friendly conversation, we continued on. We were getting on the glaciers now, and the ascent was starting to feel like a climb. We followed along the map, but also checked the area for any terrain dangers like crevasses. It was smooth sailing in the beginning.

Finally getting to the snow sections, with the route up Glacier Peak laid out ahead of us.

Hello, Glacier Peak, up close once we climbed above the clouds. That second shot is us realizing just how socked in we’d been down in the fog.

To my surprise, we ran into someone I knew out here. Ty, the lead guide from Mount Baker, was guiding a group up Glacier Peak. They had already summited early that morning and were headed back down. As always, he was full of stoke and encouragement and told me to keep crushing it. He also let us in on some much-needed beta. Up near the final summit push, about 1,000 ft of gain away from the summit, we should ditch all our climbing gear. We didn’t need it. It was a modest steep scramble and the snow had melted away. Noted.

Icefall and crevasses

From here, we ascended the sketchiest part of the climb. It’s flat and goes across a field littered with evidence of rock and icefall. I knew about this from previous trip reports. Jack and I had a quick discussion about it and agreed to move forward with a quickness. No breaks or stops, and we planned to go straight through. We managed this without incident, and next came the much steeper icefall section. It was still morning, and although much steeper, this section went off without any problems as well. The crevasses here were wildly deep. It was very cool to navigate over and around them slowly, taking in their scale and awe.

Standing over a crevasse with water ripping through the icefall, no lifeguard on duty. Jack powering up the uneven terrain.

Crevasses and clouds on the way up.

We finally arrived at the last, Cool Glacier, and began trekking across. Dozens of crevasses were opening up here. I never felt totally in danger on this section, but it was slightly unnerving. The boot marks here weren’t totally obvious, but several of the openings were end-run, so we did the same. We even hopped a few. That was a rush. Before we knew it, we arrived at a big pile of volcanic rock. Somebody else’s rope and gear was here. This must be the spot.

Safe passage through these crevasses won’t last long. They were opening up fast.

The summit

We dropped all the gear and started walking. This section is cool. You can see it from I-5. It’s a slog after going nearly 18 miles and over 9,500 ft of gain. Just 1,000 more to the top to make your claim. And we did it. I just stood there grinning like an idiot for a minute. From a storm-scrubbed dud at Paradise to the summit of the most remote peak in Washington. The stoke at the summit was electric. I even strutted over to the questionably higher point and did a quick boogie just to be safe. Jack was over my antics, and we had already been pushing our time on the summit. We spent a few last minutes taking in the miles of layers of peaks all around us. Time to go.

Two climbers making the final push across the volcanic rock to the top.

The true summit concealed in thin fog, getting closer now.

The summit finally cleared for the other party as Jack and I ground out the last couple hundred feet.

Me on the final scramble to the top.

The boys claim the summit. Glacier Peak, done.

A quick summit boogie over at the other debated highpoint, just to be safe.

Sweet victory. The summit block a stone’s throw away, with a couple climbers (or marmots) peeking at us.

Humbling views from the top. Tarns, glaciers, and peaks in every direction.

The matterhorn-like Sloan Peak standing out in the distance.

Jagged peaks as far as you could see.

More peaks, with some incredible light working through the clouds.

Our view from the true summit block, the sharp horn of Mount Pugh poking above the clouds off to the west.

Alpine lakes, tarns, and lots more mountains in every other direction.

Signing into the summit register up top.

The descent

Our grand plans of making this a two-day were beginning to fade with the sun. We arrived back to our gear, and the crevasse field had been a bit obscured by some fog and clouds that were rolling through the summit. Not ideal, but not that bad. And the sun was still strong, we would be alright. Some guys on a rope team descending the icefall previously had told us to head skier’s right for an easier descent on the icefall. I don’t particularly remember any issue with the icefall, but I heeded their advice. We went away from the obvious path and veered right.

Taking it all in before we dropped down the icefall.

An incredible panorama from the top of the icefall. This one is worth a full-size look.

Descending back through the crevasse field, finally seeing everything we’d navigated through. Sheesh.

Punch. My boot and crampon went clean through the surface like no other step so far on this trip. I felt nothing underneath my foot. My boot was completely beneath the surface. My heart sank. It set in that I had probably just punched into a crevasse or hole. I called for Jack to hold his position. I pulled my foot back from the ice abyss and beelined toward the original boot path. Jack understood what was happening and followed directly behind. I think we’ll just stick to the original path, but thanks for the pro tip, chief.

The mist senses Jack is in a weakened state.

The fun wasn’t over yet. Jack was getting thirsty. He had held off on drinking on the way up, and this resulted in mild dehydration. No big deal, we were on a melting icefall and he had iodine. A large group was ahead of us that we didn’t want to get stuck behind on this ice and rock fall zone anyway, so we took a rest. We adjusted a bit to the left out of the way and stuck our crampons in to sit down. In this moment, we heard a loud crack, one that shoots right down your spine. “Dude what was th-,” WHOOSH. Holy f*ck. An ice ball the size of my torso had broken off in the late-day heat and went flying down the icefall. It was just to our right and crushed right through the boot path. Other teams were far beyond at this point and out of the way. Had we opted to continue, it may have been a much different story for us and our rope. Better to be lucky than smart, I guess. Jack and I looked at each other. Time to get moving, right now.

We crushed down the icefall and got onto the rock fall traverse section. Shit was falling right in front of us. This was a gamble, no other way around it. After the ice ball event, we realized the rope was only putting us in danger. It was slowing us down, and in the event one of us was struck, we both were going to potentially be injured. We stashed the rope in our kit and decided to speed through this traverse. We knew there weren’t crevasses in this section, at least none that we were aware of (ignorance is still bliss sometimes). We legit ran through this section until we were clear. You could hear cracks from rocks dislodging and following. Fresh snow runouts as the rocks hurtled down Glacier Peak. Helmet, good boots, and your agility are your best friends here.

The rock fall traverse. One rule here: go fast.

Alas, we made it. Jack coiled the rope and stowed it on his pack. He was feeling much better with his fresh water, and I was slowly running out.

Jack coiling the rope after a hard day’s work.

We took some more pictures from these descent vantage points along the way. Jack had run out of snacks some time ago and was ready to get back to camp. I told him not to wait on me. The sun was visibly on the way down now, and we were out of harm’s way. It was just soft snow plunging and some easy boulder scrambling to get back to our ever so distant camp. I snapped what I could, and eventually lost sight of Jack. That’s okay, should be easy to spot ye olde faithful REI Half Dome in bright orange. Oh, except I forgot it’s hidden behind a giant boulder.

Jack bearing witness to the layers on the way down.

The biggest lake I saw on the descent, Sloan Peak’s sharp fin in the background.

The same lake from a different angle, Sloan Peak saying hello again.

Back to the dirt and rocks, grinding toward camp.

Back to camp

I ran out of water in this section and wasn’t clear on my map how to get back to the tent. It wasn’t directly along the path, as you may recall. We were in a bit of a random area when we established camp. No matter, I pressed forward. I could feel the day, the effort, and the altitude now. I had consumed all my summit snacks. I was running on reserves. The sun still had a warm glow. I arrived somewhat cooked back to camp. Over 10,000 ft of gain completed, well into 20+ miles. We had kicked some serious butt in two days. I filtered water immediately and chugged. That hit the spot, and now I was ready for some dinner and chat.

Back at camp. I could eat this much salmon right now.

Jack and I decided heading back today or tonight was absolutely inconceivable for the both of us. We both held our heads high after completing the longest objective either of us had to date. It was a glorious summit with all kinds of character in the clouds and neighboring peaks. I knew Stella was sleeping soundly at home with the dogsitter, feeling quite glad she didn’t go on this trip. We made our last alpine dinners, kicked off our boots at camp, and went to sleep for another night on Glacier Peak.

Sunset from camp to close out the second night.

The long way out

The sunset and sunrise were exceptional. We both got a good amount of sleep and hydrated from the nearby tarn in the morning. I was feeling back to 100%. We took our time packing up and took in all the views and surroundings. What a trip. We got our last shots (I’ll admit, some were just for the aesthetic), and began our journey back toward White Pass. We had a final water break with about 8 or so miles to go. We both got back into auto-pilot, and the buttery smooth single-track miles along the ridge melted away.

A couple “just for the aesthetic” shots. Just joshin around at camp with the mountain out behind us.

Cleaning up and packing out camp on the final morning.

Jack packed up and ready to go, one last look at the tarn.

The basin in daylight looks so different. Hard to believe it was the same socked-in place we stumbled into.

Making our way back toward White Pass in the morning sun.

One last goodbye, Glacier.

The buttery single-track on the way out. This is the good stuff.

We spotted a small fire on the way out that we reported once we got back to service.

The switchbacks went hella faster on the way down, and in a blink I was back at Red Creek. I filled up water one last time here and got cooking to polish off the last few miles. All the animals and bugs were out in full force on the way out too, which made for a dreamy exit from the Glacier Peak Wilderness.

One last crossing of the Red Creek log bridge on the way out.

A wild alpine daisy-looking wildflower on the way out.

Onward

Back to the cars. We met some badger biologists out here, and I’m guessing this was their ride.

It was an unforgettable trip. We reached the car and braced ourselves to be concussed by the potholes once again on the way out. It was my favorite trip to date by a long shot. This was the penultimate peak to close out the Big 5 in my first season of glacier mountaineering. All that stands between me and this goal is Mount Rainier now. Lessons learned here were patience, humility, and effective team communication even in stressful moments. Jack would be making his way back to a Navy base somewhere, and now it was time to plan for the final boss of Washington. Onward.

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Beta

• Route: Glacier Peak via the Cool Glacier (Disappointment Peak Cleaver). In on the North Fork Sauk River Trail #649 to White Pass and the Pacific Crest Trail, then over the basin and up the Gerdine and Cool Glaciers to the summit. Roughly 18 to 19 miles to the top and about 37.5 round trip, with over 11,000 ft of gain. We did it as two nights.
• Forest and river: Old-growth cedar in the Glacier Peak Wilderness (Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest), along the North Fork Sauk River.
• Trailhead and road: North Fork Sauk trailhead off the Mountain Loop Highway via Sloan Creek Road (FS 49). The road is brutally potholed. High clearance strongly recommended. A Northwest Forest pass is required at the trailhead and standard Glacier Peak Wilderness rules apply. (Confirm current.)
• Waypoints: Red Creek bridge around 3.5 miles (2,800 ft), the old Mackinaw Shelter site around 5 miles (2,950 ft), then about 3,000 ft of switchbacks in 3 miles to the PCT (~8 miles), then White Pass and the rocky basin beyond.
• High camp: The good high camp sits above the clouds past the basin, with sunrise and sunset views down valleys on both sides. Worth pushing to it rather than camping low in the basin (we didn’t, and regretted it).
• Hazards: An exposed rock-and-icefall traverse below the upper glacier (move fast, no stopping, helmet on), a steep icefall with deep crevasses, and the Cool Glacier with many opening crevasses (end-run or cross carefully). Late-day heat brings rock and ice down. Climb the hazard sections early and get off them before the afternoon.
• Gear: Standard glacier kit (rope, axe, crampons, harness, crevasse rescue) and a helmet. Ditch the climbing gear at the volcanic rock pile about 1,000 ft below the summit. The final push is a melted-out scramble.