Mt. Shasta - Solo Climb
“Not until we are lost
do we begin to understand ourselves.” Henry David Thoreau
In August 2007 I went to Shasta to solo climb the Hotlum Wintun glacier route.
Sunday. 7am. At 7,000ft elevation, I am parked in a lot 50 miles from the main road. Pine trees tower above and pine needles lay a soft blanket over the brownish green dirt.
A couple are crouched next to their small truck making breakfast on their small stove. The smell of their coffee amid the fresh pine is delightful. I pause to say hello. ”What route are you taking and did you bring a rope and ice-screws?” asks the girl, who is younger and less grisled than her climbing partner. ”No I didn’t, why?” I respond with a tinge of hesitancy. ”We heard from a guide coming down that the top is all exposed blue-ice and you will need at least three ice screws” says the older guy. I pause. ”Well I’m climbing solo and wasn’t planning on roping up.” We trade pleasantries before I tell them the route I am taking and set off.
I wasn’t to see them again or anyone else until for the next two days.
The approach is nice, if long. I stop at each hour to drink 500ml of water and eat a small snack. I move fast but curse my my pack which, at roughly 55 pounds is far too heavy for such a short trip - I learn later how to repeat such a climb with 15 lbs less gear.
Sunday 10am.
9,000ft and I stop behind a stubby cold rock and sit in dirt to drink and eat with some shelter. The wind finds me just the same. I am cold when I stop, but I have energy. The day feels great so far so I set out again quickly.
Five longish hours later I pass 10,000 feet with no sign of the base camp that is supposed to be there. The snow starts here so I stop to gear up with crampons and ice-axe.
Grass and dirt and trees fade to loose rock, looser rock and snow and ice. Greens and browns are replaced by greys and whites. The wind bites into my skin. My “windbreaker” annoyingly fails to perform as advertised. Passing 10,500ft still no base camp. I feel good so I decide to continue climbing and camp on the ridge somewhere up above.
Steep is replaced by steeper and steeper still. Any loose snow that might provide purchase is scoured away, leaving the hard but brittle intense blue ice of the glacier below. The altitude intensifies the hammering sun reflecting back up from the blinding white snow. My windbreaker is soaked through. I feel my skin burning and regularly apply sunblock. Still my skin feels hot. I take off my dark glacier glasses for a few seconds, but its too bright to see much at all.
The errant gust catches me off balance and threatens to relieve me of my tenuous purchase on the steepening slope. It plays havoc with my nerves and forces me to slow down. I decide to traverse off the ice to the rocky ridge to my left. It looks like there is a flat spot about a thousand feet up, but on arriving, it turns out not to be flat at all. I begin to worry that I won’t find a suitable bivouac ledge. With no choice, I climb higher still.
Sunday 4pm.
With worry starting to fray my nerves I decide to go no higher and drop my pack to scramble around on the ridge looking for a suitable ledge to sleep on for the night. Eventually, I find a small once used bivy site which is flat enough.
By nightfall I have eaten and collected water from some glacier runoff I find close by. I settle down for the night with the base of the valley some 11,000 feet below. I fall asleep easily from exhaustion.
Monday 2am.
I am awake and it is dark with pin pricks of light from the stars only. No moon. My throat is on fire and I fumble around to find my bottle and take a long pull. Relief! I had never felt such a thirst. 11,000ft is the highest I’ve ever been, and I’m suffering from altitude sickness. After the pain in my throat subsides I notice that I have an intense headache. I am so tired I simply ignore it and go back to sleep.
My rasping throat shakes me to life regularly and I drink a few sips then pass out again. After a couple more hours of this shiftless sleep, I decide to just get going again. It is 4:30am.
With crampons, Ice Axe, headlamp, 2 liters of water a few snacks and a down jacket I set off onto the ice again. Thankfully this morning there is no wind. The foreboding stillness and quiet of mountains dark inky blackness gives me pause.
With the warnings of the previous day in mind I decide to climb to the summit but will turn around if it gets too steep and dangerous to continue with no rope.
Starting out, my legs feel they are filled with lead, and after 3 hours of steepening terrain, I am disheartened to realize I’ve only ascended 1,000 feet. At this rate I won’t summit till 2pm.
I told my wife that I’d be off the mountain by Monday at 6pm and would call her to tell her I am OK. I decide that I must turn around by 2pm even if I have not hit the summit. Otherwise it will get dark and I will risk getting lost wont be able to call her which would leave her worrying all night.
Exhaustion and some dehydration be damned, I push myself to climb faster. I set goals for each 10 yards. Just keep moving until I get to that rock up ahead then I can rest. Then the next rock, then the next.
Monday 11am.
13,00ft. I know I am supposed to traverse left across the ridge. I have a short description of the route memorized and realize that it is woefully inadequate. It says to look for a pyramid rock but there are at least 10 rocks around that look like pyramids. Seeing no other option, I rely on my altimeter and traverse the ridge.
The rock of the ridge is heinous and unstable. Every 2 feet up I slide 1 foot back. Even the big rocks are loose and I start more than a few mini rock slides. My nerves are completely shot from the loose rock and I finally get to the end of the ridge and back onto ice and thankfully back to some snow!
Putting the crampons back on my fingers get numb from the cold. The summit is nowhere to be seen.
The mountain is much bigger than I thought. It is enormous and looks nothing like the small 3×5 black and white photo I studied for months.
Worry dances at the edge of my awareness and I push it back with the idea that I’ll just keep climbing till 2pm then turn around. I start out up a steep chute and have now switched to front-pointing (using the front points of the crampons). It is tiring on my calfs but I press on. Noon comes and goes and the summit is nowhere in sight. An hour later I think I can see the summit. Still I have not crossed the “super steep exposed blue ice” that the other climbers referred to so I continue climbing.
I arrive at the summit headwall and here is the ice. It is steep and scary (as I have no experience on such) but I can see the summit just 100 feet above me. I have no rope and I know I should turn around. I don’t. The summit is so close. Fear battles determination. Determination wins and I attack the final 100 feet.
Monday 2:30pm.
I emerge onto the summit plateau. 14,400 feet! Two climbers appear from the opposite side and ask where is my partner. I have none. They are surprised and look strangely at me.
I spend 5 minutes there eating and drinking then start downclimbing.
Immediately I realize that it looks far more scary to go down what I already came up. I get scared but there appears to be no choice so I just go down anyway hoping not to slip.
A few minutes later, despite my caution, I slip anyway and slide for some distance, maybe 40 feet, but I can’t be sure. I manage to self-arrest with my axe. Adrenaline floods and my heart jumps out of my chest. A few minutes later I get myself under control and realize I’ve just stopped myself from a 7,000 foot fall down the glacier. I realize I have made a mistake by descending here but now it is too late. I must get back to my tent and off the mountain.
I resolve to move slower and more carefully. I try but the steepness is too much and I slip again. This time I catch myself sooner and regain composure again. With excrutiatingly slow motion I continue down until I have passed the steep bits.
The 4 hours that follow are a blur in my mind. Exhausted and dehydrated time seems to speed up. I see the other climbers going down and stop to talk to them. They are surprised I went to the top. They say they turned around at 12,000 feet due to risk. I mumble something about the conditions at the top and move quickly away back to my tent. At last I reach my tent and pack up with too much haste. I am not thinking straight.
Monday 6:30pm.
Getting back to the safety of my truck parked at the bottom is all I can think of. I have to get down to the trail before dark or I will be lost. I haven’t eaten anything for hours and begin to hallucinate. I see rocks in the distance and think they are tents. They end up being rocks and I feel I am losing my mind. I continue and move faster. I hear other climbers behind me, but turn and see no one. After what seems like ages, the trail finally appears just as the sun begins to dip below the mountain top and I finally stop to drink and eat. Getting the food and water quickly suppresses the mild hallucinations, and I jog the rest of the two miles down to my truck arriving just as the last light leaves the sky.
The battery in my truck is dead. My heart stops. I try again. Nothing. I look around and there is no one else in the parking lot. I am 50 miles from the highway and it is pitch black. I have no cell service. I try my emergency radio for thirty minutes and get no response. I pace around outside my truck, and the lack of food and water married with the cold of the night take their toll and I begin shaking with mild hypothermia. I begin to feel myself panic and I sit down to think. Stop my mind from racing. Think. Think. I get into my car and put on all my down clothing and get into my sleeping bag. I make a hot meal. The shaking stops. I return my mind to the problem of the battery.
A truck is next to mine. The one belonging to the other climbers. Maybe I can get their battery out and jump start my truck. A frustrating hour passes before I finally figure out how to use my ice axe to pop their hood and get their battery out. Hooray! I am saved. My celebration is cut short when I plug it into my car and it doesn’t work. Their battery is too small for my truck and fails to even turn the engine once! Finally drained of all hope I put their battery back and jump into my truck to sleep until dawn at which point I will plan out my escape.
Thoughts of my wife worrying the night away, and phone calls to the rangers fill my dreams.
I get started the next morning and plan to climb back to the base camp I couldn’t find earlier and find the other climbers for help. I am sore but I am desperate. I worry that my wife is worried. I almost run the three miles back up the mountain to the base camp at 10,000 feet. I find it but there are no climbers there!
Tuesday 10am.
Despondent and exhausted, I have given up on finding them and decide to head down the mountain. As fate would have it, an hour later I think I spot the other climbers coming towards me. Shaking my head and hoping its no hallucination, they still seem to be there. I quicken my step as relief begins to come to me.
Reaching the grisled old climber, I mumble about my battery and ask for his phone and quickly call my wife. Tell her everything is OK and I will call her back soon.
We get back to my car and it jump starts with no problem. I thank the climbers and hurriedly drive away. Back to town and safety and people. I am safe.
I realize that while I may understand myself better, I will never climb alone again.
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