Argonaut

We'd been hoping to do Argonaut on a nice fall day (we'd heard that fall was a nice time to be there), but for some reason it was the best thing we could come up with for a 50%-chance-of-showers-and-cloudy weekend.

We'd been checking the weather models every 6 hours or so and decided that we'd have dry weather until 3 p.m. on Saturday and all day Sunday, which would be just right for a 7 mile approach on Saturday and a climb and de-proach on Sunday.

It turns out that weather models aren't always spot-on.

For example, when we pulled into the parking lot just before 11 a.m., it wasn't raining, but it started doing so almost as soon as we opened the door.  Sigh.  After getting ready much more slowly than usual, and putting on our boots while snug inside the car, and even reading some comics in the newspaper, we finally decided that the rain had tapered off enough that we should start our trek to camp.

I decided that it was the perfect trip for an umbrella, so I stuffed a leopard-skin-print one in my pack as we headed out.

We were pleasantly surprised to not be rained during our trip to camp; it didn't rain while we set up camp, did arts and crafts, napped, or cooked dinner, either.  In fact, as we got ready for bed, we could spy hundreds of stars through the trees above us.

Arts and crafts time at camp

The next morning it seemed to take forever for the sun to rise; it was just light enough to start our bushwhack uphill at 6:40 a.m.

According to most reports, one can avoid most thrashing about if you head straight uphill from the junction of the Ingalls Creek and Fourth Creek trails and stick to game trails.  Apparently we were following game who stuck to only one topo line for their entire lives, for we seemed to find innumerable trails that traversed, but only one or two that actually went uphill at all.

In the end, we ended up doing some thrashing.  My hopes of ascending anywhere near Charlie's estimate of 1000'/hour were dashed.  (After our last trip together, my estimate was a fair bit slower than that).  However, the thrashing didn't last too long, and after that the going was quick all the way up to ~7600', where things steepened a bit.

The crux was, advertised, the 50' up to the east ridge.  We didn't rope up for its ascent, but we did for the way down, and as the wind howled and the route started to look even steeper on the way down, I was glad we did.  (For some reason, it was quite windy in just that section).  The summit block itself was good fun; the only disappointment was the complete lack of views to the north.  And much to my surprise, we had still averaged 1000' hour (for a total time of 4 hours), despite our thrashing!

 The summit block.  You can't see the deep hole to Charlie's right!

Charlie descending the summit block

It was fun to see that the new summit register, 3 months old, had about a half dozen parties in it, three of them with Washington Alpine Club representatives.

Charlie rappelling down from the east ridge

Other than cranky knees, the way down was relatively smooth.

We decided that we had time to spare for a shortcut, so we took a different way back down to the Ingalls Creek trail with the hopes of avoiding slide alder.  We were relatively successful for much of the way, but no bushwhack is complete without at least some of it.  Let's just say that if you end up on our descent route, you might keep an eye out for a pair of thin OR gloves in some slide alder.  They weren't attached to my pack very securely....

We ended up swinging a bit further east than intended (the fall line led us that way), but still ended up getting down faster than our way up (which is often not the case for us when the going is steep or tricky).  It took us 3:40 to get back down to the trail (and then another 15 to get back to camp).

The weather had treated us relatively well so far, but at about 5 p.m. we noticed the skies getting significantly darker.  Yikes.  A few minutes later the skies opened up.  Thank goodness I had my backcountry umbrella!

The ranger in the parking lot sounded surprised when we told him we had done Argonaut.  I don't think he's used to seeing climbers carrying umbrellas!

Return to Ragged Ridge

It's funny how some mountains build you up, and others smack you down.

After our trip to Luahna, where everything went according to plan, and we got back to civilization in time for burgers and shakes at my favorite diner, I was feeling pretty competent at this business of mountain meandering.

Charlie on the Fisher Creek Trail

And for some reason, our view from a col between Kimtah and Katsuk on our first trip to Ragged Ridge had made the slope below Cosho look mellow; friendly, even.

And perhaps it's the mismatch of expectations and reality that kills me.

After just over a thousand feet of bushwhacking through what was advertised to be "open forest", I was already grumpy.  In hindsight, the sub-par mood had started at the car, when my climbing partner had decided that he was going to bring an 18 liter pack for the trip.  It's true that I didn't need, strictly speaking, every item on and in my forty-ish liter pack that weekend, but I don't tend to call a hat and gloves "optional" when planning on bivying at 8000'.  But I digress.

That "open forest" had already applied pine needles over every square inch of my body and a goose-egg sized bump to my shin.  And the flies and heat were starting to drive me mad.

To add to the stress, the gully where my ever-optimistic climbing partner had predicted water contained zilch.  This on one of the sunniest, hottest days of the year as we headed up the 4000'/mile incline for another 3000' of southwest facing fun.  And no, we hadn't refilled our bladders at the river.

Well, 3000' doesn't take fit people all that long to ascend, and we were pretty sure that we'd be able to access the glacier at the top of this gully.  So we continued upward.

My climbing partner, who in addition to being the most optimistic one I've ever had is also the kindest, gives me credit for espying the trickle of water we found at 5400'.  And when I say trickle, I'm not kidding.  It took about 10 minutes to get 1.5L into my water bladder.  Drip, drip, drip.

The Optimist was reluctant to take his bladder out of his pack to fill it because he would have to completely re-pack his pack, and getting everything into and out of a stuffed-to-the-gills 18-liter pack is apparently the climber's equivalent of flossing your teeth: something you'd really rather not do more than once per day.  So he proceeded to perform what I can only describe as the "avian parent" to his water bladder.   Yes -- he extracted the water from a pool not much bigger than his face (we're waiting for the giardia to hit any day now...) with his mouth and then into the bladder via the hose.  Not something I've seen done before, and even slower than waiting for the trickle to fill.  (Drip, drip, drip).

The luck with the water heartened us and helped us through the next 1500 feet.  We even stumbled across an even bigger trickle (still not big enough to call a stream) where we loaded up on more water.

But the heat, the flies (and horseflies!  I swear I've never seen any horseflies in the Cascades, but between the two of us we killed at least a dozen during the trip), and constant fear of slipping took its toll.

"This isn't fun," I declared at a particularly low point.

"I'm sorry," the Kindest Optimist replied.  "You're right.  We don't have to do this."

I'll plead the fifth and avoid providing an accurate description of my state at this point, but my lower back had already been rubbed raw by my pack; my left food couldn't get an edge at all on this stupidly-hard-packed dirt because an achilles problem had forced me to wear a trail running shoe on that foot; the flies continued; the sun only intensified through the afternoon.  Maybe you can guess.

"I guess I'm willing to go up to the col, at least."

Our plan was to bivy at the col just east of the summit of Cosho, where the Kimtah Glacier reaches the ridge.  We just had to continue up another 1500' of frustration to get there.

There were all sorts of rocks on the way up that gully:  vertical strips of softball sized-sized rocks that all moved when you tried to traverse them, covering your ankles and making you wonder if you would escape.  Hard-packed dirt-sand that wouldn't hold an edge unless you kicked steps repeatedly.  Solid rocks whose only edges were covered by small, loose rocks.  If I'd been in any sort of mood to do so, I would have taken pictures to remember all the different ways in which rock could be so terrible.

Keeping all muscles tensed throughout the ascent was exhausting: physically, mentally, and emotionally.

When we finally reached the col, we sat and ate and in subdued conversation.  Only after 45 minutes did we even think about heading up to the summit.  It certainly didn't look like class 3 from our position.  Would we be able to make it up there and back before dark?

Fortune smiled upon us at this point, however, and given us a very pleasant trip up to the summit from the col, the best 400' we'd had all day, containing just one "move" that gave us pause.

And the sunset and moonrise that we got to see from the summit might have made it all worthwhile.

Moonrise over Kimtah Peak at sunset from Cosho's summit

That night we talked about our plans for the next day.

"We don't have to climb Kimtah tomorrow," I said, even though that had been the original plan.

"Nope, if it's not fun, we shouldn't do it.  Unless that's what we want to do,"  said the Kindest Optimist, in his usual accommodating manner.

Since I'm usually willing to get up earlier than my climbing partner, I asked him when he'd be interested in waking up on Sunday.

"Any time after 5 a.m."

"All right; I'll wake up you up when I'm ready to get up."

Generally I'm in favor of getting an early start; whatever's needed to accomplish the next day's objectives, as long as I get at least five or six hours of sleep.  But sometimes exhaustion and sleep deprivation trump summit ambitions,.  And despite having a very nice evening, I still hadn't forgotten the day's suffering.  I didn't set an alarm for the next morning, but I knew that I'd be able to wake up around 5 without one.

But I hadn't accounted for our visitor.

From within my bivy bag bed, I heard some bustling about outside.  An animal?  We hadn't seen so much as a marmot since we'd left Easy Pass.  It was the Kindest Optimist, responding to an invasion by one "large rat."  My sleep-infected brain knew this didn't sound right, but nevertheless was mortified by the thought of a rat running around and nibbling on our gear.

I might get up pretty easily in the morning, but the middle of the night is a different story.  By the time I became fully conscious after feeling what I thought was a rat trying to nibble on my wrist (?!), Optimist had already secured our helmets on top of trekking poles, his pack on top of two poles, and all of our boots and his water bladder in his bivy bag.

The maybe-not-always-Kindest Optimist was blathering something about the morality of trying to kill a rat that was after our gear with an ice ax.  I wasn't convinced that the likelihood of death was great enough to merit debate, but in the end he decided to refrain from violence.

I pulled my pack into my bag, turning it into something resembling a pillow and got a few glimpses over the next few hours of the "rat", which looked much more like a pika to me.  As the restless night progressed I swung from "no need to do Kimtah" to something like "well, maybe if we can bandage up my back somehow..."

When I looked at my watch around 5:30 a.m. I felt like I'd barely slept;  when Charlie pointed out the beauty of the sunrise a bit later, I caught a glimpse, grunted, and went back to sleep.

It wasn't until almost 7:30 a.m. that we started getting out of our bivy bags, a very late start indeed.  Fortunately the damage from the pika was minimal:  a few nibbles from the handles of my trekking poles, a small hole in the Optimist's pack, and a bit of chomping on the bite valve for my water bladder (which, lucky for me, didn't prevent me from drinking any of my water).

I won't bore you with the rest of the details except to say that we opted for back bandaging and optimistic time projections, which added up to a trip to Kimtah's summit.  We probably should have taken the glacier route across to Kimtah, as it might have saved us two or three hours or more of travel time (although carrying glacier gear would have slowed us down on the rest of the trip...).  But as it was, we were ropeless and decided instead to we descend 1000', then traverse under Thieve's Peak and back up 1000' to the col between Thieve's Peak and Kimtah.  Then a traverse across ledges, and up more terrible slope to the top.  The route we took gave us some exposed class 3 scrambling on the summit block, but nowhere did we find any class 4 scrambling (the route up to the Cosho col had had some class 4-ish sections, but it was only rated class 3 for some reason?).

ABD Combination Pad = awesome. (And no, I don't wear my pants that low except for bandaging!)

Our time estimates that predicted our return to the trail before dark were a full two hours off, in part because we did some alder-thrashing before realizing that we really did want to take the not-so-open forest back down to the trail.  And in part because descending isn't always faster than ascending (which we knew, but there's that optimism thing).

I was very happy, if emotionally exhausted, when we finally reached the trail.  And even happier when, at 10:30 p.m. we decided to get some sleep before heading 10 miles back to the car and 3+ hours back to Seattle.

Thank you, Optimist.  For patching my back, for your patience, and for miraculously fitting the stove into your pack for the return trip.

Little Tahoma, June 26

Co-conspirators: Charlie Hagedorn David Teitlebaum Weather: Superb.  Freezing Level: 10,000'.  Breezy after 2 p.m. Pictures: http://www.flickr.com/photos/susanashlock/sets/72157627059611052/ Poor Little Tahoma.  Not only is he saddled with an inferiority complex by virtue of being known as the diminutive of his bigger brother, but ever since he got my attention a few years ago, all I've heard is a stream of complaints about his loose rock. "A pile of choss."  "I wouldn't do that one again."  "Ugh." Are we not skier-climbers of Washington state?  Do we not visit the likes of Jack Mountain, Boston Peak, Saska,andmore?  Do we not enjoy the challenge of trying to find one foothold that might not bonk our climbing partner on the head? At this time of this year, anyway, I found Little Tahoma to be a relatively solid, enjoyable scramble to the top. (Judging from their comments, my comrades on this outing might not have agreed...) But I've gotten ahead of myself... A 4 a.m. start saw us walking for the first mile and a half (something about the plethora of pine needles on the snow kept us from skinning earlier; it certainly would have been possible).  A couple of ski-carries across bridges, then back on the skins... until a beautiful boot ladder just below Meany Crest convinced us that our tentative steps with ski crampons might not be the fastest way. From there, it was skins and ski crampons all the way to the notch in the Whitman Crest, where skis were carried just a few feet.  We started booting again around 9600' and two of us stashed our skis next to the others we found at the ridge at 10,400'.  By then (11:30 a.m.) the snow had softened enough for knee-deep post-holing, but none of us wanted to scramble along the ridge, and instead opted for the SE-facing slope that took us to within a couple hundred feet of the summit. At least one of us didn't want to tag the summit without a belay (and we wanted to justify the cordelettes we had carried up!) so we set one up, tagged the summit, and came back down. Jealous I was of Charlie's skis, placed 500' higher than mine, but eventually all of us were shushing down the Whitman. Few joys are greater than straightlining across a glacier and watching the world go by.  The sloppy, sticky snow below Meany Crest was significantly less joyful, but the deep runnels did provide some adrenaline. At this point (mid-afternoon), there were quite a few folks about, out for a ski on the Fryingpan, heading to camp to prepare for a trip to Little Tahoma, or just out for a day hike.  Quite a contrast to the first half of the day!  (We didn't actually cross paths with anyone on our trip until 11 a.m.) We avoided the footbridge over Fryingpan Creek by crossing early, over a snow bridge; this shortcut only cost us about a half hour of sidestepping, tree straddling, and step-retracing. Unlike our previous week's trip out from Hoodoo Peak, where the descent through the trees was somewhere between terrible and miserable, the descent along the Wonderland trail was sublime: well-groomed and fast. Congrats to Charlie, who, except for one brief carry along the trail, kept his skis on to the car ... and demonstrated how to ski dirt and wooden bridges along the way! Total time: 13.5 hours.