Mt. Foraker and the Kahiltna glacier as seen from base camp.

      Although at times like this it can feel rather absent of hope, our camp here on the Kahiltna is not a lonely place. In fact there is quite a bustle about when the snow is not falling. We are camped at 7200' feet on the Southeast Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier. Called the Kahiltna International Airport (KIA) by some, Denali Base Camp by others, and Whiteout City by us these last few days. A few tents down are the park rangers, next to them Tim Connelly, a friend and co-worker along with his team heading for Mt. Foraker, and another team or two just up hill from us with an array of climbing plans. All in all, its pretty quiet around camp. A far cry from what the scene will be like in just a matter of weeks: planes arriving by the dozens, climbers embarking by the hundreds. Non-stop action. Coming to the Alaska Range early in the season may be colder, but if you prefer quiet, April is the time.

      We touched down about a week ago and made an attempt on our main objective, the West Ridge of Mt. Hunter shortly afterward. I had a small pit in my stomach as we struck out towards the climb. Last year, in the Ruth Gorge, we landed, got snowed on for a few days, and learned a hard lesson on the Southwest Ridge of Peak 11,300. It takes more than a day or two after a big snow for climbing conditions to improve. We were eager, and when the snow stopped falling, we stopped waiting and got on the route. We failed miserably. As we skied towards Mount Hunter after only having been in the range for a few days, I couldn't help but think that we were being hasty once again. I learned another Alaskan lesson the previous year. Don't miss a weather window. Often in the Alaska Range, the weather moves in and out quickly, and successful climbers are the ones who can recognize windows of good weather and conditions and seize them without hesitation. Recognizing these windows is not always an easy thing to do. Our eagerness, coupled with a decent forecast, had prompted us into what had the potential to be premature action.

Seth skiing from base camp towards the main flow of the Kahiltna Glacier.

      Our ski to the base of the route was quite scenic but otherwise relatively uneventful. Moving from the sheltered arm of the Southeast Fork onto the wider main flow of the Kahiltna was gorgeous, and the views of Mt. Foraker and Denali started to help us adjust to the scale. A couple hours of skiing had put us at the entrance to the Northwest Basin, a feature on the lower part of Hunter's West Ridge. There are two commonly used approaches to the West Ridge. The first approach is usually referred to as the "Beckey Start". It was the line of ascent used when Fred Beckey and Heinrich Harrer first climbed the route in 1954. Gary Bocarde gained the West Ridge in a slightly different way on his climb of the route in 1978, and his Northwest Basin variation has been gaining in popularity with climbers because it is a bit more direct. Both approaches involve some exposure to ice fall and avalanche danger but the shorter, more direct Northwest Basin is notoriously exposed to hazards from above as one has to pass under some very serious and active seracs. We elected for the Bocarde Variation as our approach of choice for a couple of reasons. From a few photos we had seen of the lower portion of the route, it looked as though one could stay high on the left hand side of the basin and effectively pass above the threatening seracs. Our visual confirmation of such a possibility upon arrival gave us hope and we started post holing towards the upper left hand side of the Northwest Basin enroute to the West Ridge.

The West Ridge Route on Mt. Hunter as seen from the Sultana Ridge on Mt. Foraker. Tim Connelly.

      The going was slow and discouraging at first, but as we ascended (I would say "climbed" if such travel could be called climbing), progress changed to very slow and the atmosphere to extremely discouraging. The snow was deep and our progress, if not for the trench left in our wake, was hardly discernable. My pack felt as though Seth had snuck the 5lb block of cheddar and 12 cans of chicken from our base camp in when I wasn't looking. I wouldn't put it past him. We could only hope that as, or should I say if, we gained elevation the angle would steepen and the snow would harden allowing us more rapid progress.

A view of our route through the NW Basin and onto the ridge crest. Camps marked in red.

      Once past a small bergschrund and onto some steeper terrain, the snow was much more friendly for climbing, and we picked up the pace. The sun was out now, and the shadows that had kept us cool while moving to this point gave way to direct sun and an ensuing sweat. Despite the ambient temperature being below freezing, we were climbing in a single layer of synthetic shirt. The snow on the 50-degree slope we were climbing was acting like a mirror reflecting the sun only inches from our faces and cooking us in the process. Higher in the basin, I was faced with the option of continuing to traverse the slope we were on or attempting to gain a ridge just above us. My thinking was that the ridge just above us would be wind-swept and the travel would be easier than continuing on the slope we were on, which in the mid-morning sun, had turned to the consistency of mashed potatoes.

      There was a narrow gully leading up to what looked to be the crest of this small ridge. I started up it, working towards a small notch at the top of the gully. The notch turned out to be a cornice, and as I peered down the 1000 feet between me and the ground on the other side of the ridge, I was forced to contemplate how to make my way from the precarious stance that i was on, past another cornice that blocked upward progress onto the crest of the ridge. Start digging was the solution I settled on, so with Seth a rope length below me, one tiny stopper half a rope length below me, tools buried to the hilt in snow the consistency of sugar, and collapsing footsteps on the 70 degree slope, I started scraping away at the lip of the cornice - which was now over my head. After several minutes (or were they hours) and a handful of insulting, pace encouraging inquiries from below, I chipped away enough of the lip to manage placement of a tool on top of the cornice. One leg hoist and belly flop later and I was over it. Grace has never been, and never will be, among my talents and abilities if I have such things at all. We plodded along the ridge for a while and decided to camp rather than posthole on into the afternoon.

      Thirty-six hours later, most of them spent in a Bibler I-tent (very small), we were headed down. I think the reason they call it an "I Tent" is that the only way it could possibly be comfortable is if "I" am the only one in it. It started snowing almost as soon as we had the platform dug and the tent pitched, and it didn't stop for almost two days. Our retreat was made rather interesting thanks to the newly deposited snow and the resulting avalanche conditions. Three separate times we released slab avalanches on our descent, two of which were quite sizeable. One of these avalanches released around Seth's knees and swept all the snow from between us missing me by a few feet. Fortunately for the state of my undergarments I hade made my usual stop at the snow hole latrine that morning before we started our descent.

Our first camp above the NW Basin after the snow stopped. Mt. Foraker in the distance.

      Now settled back at our Kahiltna base camp, the mood was less than joyful. We had decided to leave a cache of gear and food at our camp below the West Ridge with the hope that the weather would clear and we would get another shot at climbing. Over the course of the next few days, nearly a full week actually, I often wondered if we would see our stash of gear again, or even the mountain it was on.

We found several ways to entertain ourselves while the snow fell. The park rangers camped nearby had brought with them a couple of snow skates for use in the down time. A snow skate is a cruel joke invented by some snow board company with too much time on their hands. It closely resembles a skateboard in size and appearance yet has edges like a snowboard on the bottom. They claim that this contraption can be ridden by mere mortals; however, after my attempts I am quite convinced that this is a lie. After a few hours of work we had a pretty decent alpine skate park built, and taking turns sketching our way down the course while trying to avoid serious injury became a daily pastime. Another product of our boredom and digging efforts was what I believe to be the first glacier constructed slack line. A thirty-foot piece of webbing stretched taught, tight rope style, that we would take turns attempting to walk, again trying to avoid personal injury in the process.

      Late in the afternoon of rest day number eight, something strange, mystical, and somewhat bewildering happened. It cleared up. We were caught off-guard with mugs of hot drink in our hands and sleep on our minds, but sure enough, the clouds had parted, and in the fading daylight we could see patches of blue. We dashed to the ranger's tent to try and catch a forecast for the next few days. Forty-eight hours of high pressure is what they told us. Now the hard part was trying to figure out if that was enough time, given the snow conditions, to get up and down the route. Probably not was the consensus, but we decided to go for it anyway. Another failure seemed more interesting than sitting for who knows how much longer. We would finish packing in the morning and start skiing by 5am.

      Progress to our previous high point was rapid, due partly to the fact that our descent tracks were only covered in a few spots and the post holing that had slowed us down so much on the first go was not as much of a factor this time around. We were at our cache in less than half the time it had taken us before. We were optimistic about our pace, but uncertain of what lay ahead. From our previous camp we needed to ascend an apron of snow and avalanche debris and cross a bergschrund before making a long traverse to the base of the main couloir that accesses the West Ridge proper from the top of the Northwest Basin. The traverse went none-too-quickly thanks to the new snow, but as we approached the couloir, conditions began steadily improving and soon enough we were front pointing and using dagger technique on gradually steepening 55 degree nèvé. It felt quite glorious after having done nothing but slide, posthole, and plod thus far in the trip.

Approaching the couloir (above the climbers head) that leads to the West Ridge.

      The climbing in the couloir was very consistent and enjoyable. The new snow that had fallen over the previous days had slid out of the steep gully, leaving the harder layers beneath exposed. The avalanches had left a series of small runnels, grooves and interesting features on the surface of the snow, providing some relief from the tedious nature of making the same moves over and over again for hundreds of feet on a featureless slope. We climbed the 800 foot gully in two pitches and reached a camp spot on the ridge utterly exhausted. The last half rope length to the ridge crest was smooth, featureless blue ice and it felt rather strenuous after having covered almost 5 miles and 4500 feet of elevation already that morning.

Climbing steepening ice at the top of the couloir.

      We reached the ridge just in time, maybe just a little late as the sun was in full effect. Our camp spot was between two seracs on a broken section of the ridge. We were able to pitch the tent in the shade under one of the overhangs and set our wet gear in the sun to dry while we hid from the indescribable intensity of its rays a few feet away. Its was mid afternoon and we were cooked. A few hours of sitting and taking in the views, an alpine dinner, and discussion of plans for the following morning saw us tucked in our sacks early, trying hard to recover from the days exertion. Because of the sheltered position of our camp we were unable to get a clear view of the route ahead. In our minds, anticipation and uncertainty wrestled with exhaustion and fatigue as we lay waiting for sleep to take us over.

Seth at our first camp on the ridge.

      The night was crisp and clear, the morning still and blue, and we were underway at about 5am. We had planned on a short day of moving along what we thought would be a gentle section of the ridge in order to put ourselves in a slightly better position for a summit attempt on the following day. The climbing out of camp was mostly straight forward and moderate. Climbing a sharp, glaciated, and heavily corniced ridge is always entertaining and engaging even if the angle in not such that the climbing is hard. Cracks, holes, crevasses, ice bulges, steep ups, steep downs, and exposed traverses kept our attention as we made our way across the varied ridge. Sometimes we were able to stand and walk upright, other times we were in full ice climbing mode. The most exciting part on this section of the ridge was when we would reach an impasse on a feature on the ridge and have to end run the obstacle on one side or another. This required moving from the crest of the ridge onto the exposed slopes that fell away thousands of feet to the glacier below. A handful of hours after having left our previous camp we plodded onto a broad section of the ridge from which we could see the route ahead and decided to camp. The last remaining difficulties were visible and they looked as though they would be much more manageable without the weight of overnight gear on our shoulders early the next morning.

End-running a fluting on the ridge.

      After setting up our second camp at a broad spot on the ridge, we spent the afternoon lazing in the afternoon heat, drying our gear, and burning our faces while trying to recharge our mental and physical batteries. The weather was holding and again were optimistic. To try and take advantage of the best climbing conditions we left camp at 11pm and set out just as the last light of the day was growing dim. The Alaskan sky blackened, as it does only briefly this time of year, and we donned headlamps at what we thought would be the crux of the route, a several hundred foot ice dome nicknamed "the shield". The ice climbing averaged about 60 degrees with much steeper climbing in sections. Shortly after launching onto the gradually steepening blue ice I dropped one of our already thin supply of ice screws. This slowed us down a bit on the next few pitches of hard ice, the seriousness of which was intensified by gale force winds and climbing by headlamp. As the day lightened we moved together traversing an exposed knife edge fin of ice, after what seemed like forever the fin ended and we were able to take a break from the hanging belays we had been enduring for the last few hours at a small col overlooking the North Face of Mt. Hunter and Denali base camp. The technical difficulties looked to be behind us, and the final obstacle separating us from the summit plateau was a band of jumbled seracs and ice. We found an easy passage through the seracs with moderate challenge and casually strolled across the massive summit plateau to the summit pyramid.

Approaching the summit pyramid on Mt. Hunter.

      The summit pyramid of Mt. Hunter is a few hundred-foot mound jutting from an otherwise flat plateau. Neither of us stood on top of it. I have never seen the view from the top of Mt. Hunter and in a few ways I regret that. The decision to stop short was a good and appropriate one and instead of continuing on, we turned around a short ways below the summit and began the long and involved descent back to the camp it seemed like we had left an eternity ago. Reversing our path on "the shield" was tedious, and scary to say the least. With just one rope we were able to cover very little ground with each rappel. By the time I drilled my 12th v-thread of the day I had it pretty much down to an art. Rappel, kick a small stance out of the blue ice, clear the rotten ice from the surface, sink two screws for an anchor, hang from the screws to save my burning calves and aching feet, drill the holes, thread the cord, tie a not, thread the ropes, pull the ropes, throw the ropes, rappel, kick a stance. Repeat until exhausted and then repeat some more. Over and over this went until we were able to touch down at the base of the steep section on "the shield" and begin walking our balling crampons and numb bodies back to our tent.

Looking down the crest of the West Ridge.

      We made it back to camp as the last warmth was fading out of the day. The sun was low on the horizon and the sunset was quite a treat from our small perch on top of a building sized cornice. Falling asleep after twenty some hours on the go was a pretty easy thing and the 3am alarm that let us know it was time to continue our descent off this mountain came all too early.

      The sections of the ridge that were exciting on the way up were no less exciting on the way down, at least we had gravity working with us going down. More v-thread rappels and a few fixed rock anchors got us back to the base of the couloir and the snow slopes that lead us back through the Northwest basin. We had stashed my skis and Seth's split board (skis that convert to a snowboard) part way up the basin. We happily donned our sliding devices and moved without walking for the first time in days. I would say that skiing out felt good, but what I managed to do didn't really resemble skiing. Seth had a little better time on his split board and even managed to arc a few turns once we had made our way our of crevassed territory. It felt wonderful to be out of harms way after having been on our toes and on our guard almost every minute for the last 3 days. The uphill ski back to camp, nicknamed "heart break hill" managed to break our smiles, but not our hearts. Tunes from my headphones and already fond memories of the climb filled my head as we slid back to our comfortable home on the glacier just as the snow began to fall.

The lower West Ridge of Mt. Hunter (background) from the Kahiltna base camp.

      We had hoped to climb another route, ambitiously two, on this trip, we even hopped another flight back over to the Ruth Gorge to give Peak 11,300 another go, but alas, it was once again not in the cards. We considered our trip a success and were thrilled to spent some more time amidst some of the most beautiful mountains in the world in the company of some outstanding folks.