There I was... Mount Adams

Introducing a new series of posts: There I was...

This is where you'll some hybrid of a travel journal and a trip report. An ode to the Hemmingways, Twains and Kerouacs who have so adroitly reported not only the steps they've taken, but what made each one unique. It's a longer form of blogging than my standard post, I've got to do something with my years of studying English in college :). Make sure to let me know what you think about this format in the comments section below. Today I'll recall the smiles, sweat and beers that came along with the Mount Adams leg of the Volcano Tour.

There I was, I won't claim entirely sober, at my good friend Kevin's wedding, in a rented grey tuxedo, a side effect of being included in the party of groomsmen. I had been wondering since March when I first crossed paths with Chris Davenport in Aspen, Colorado, if he would actually follow up with his casual invite for me to join him on his Volcano Tour when he came through my home state of Washington.

When my phone rang with a Colorado number, my suspicions that perhaps the most professional of professional skiers had indeed kept his commitment to include me in his outings were confirmed. I must admit a sharp rise in blood pressure as I accepted the invitation and made plans to meet the following night at the base of Mt. Adams for an alpine start the next morning. See, while they were training and then ticking off Lassen, Shasta, Bachelor, Sisters, Hood, etc., etc., etc. I was editing photos, designing websites, hanging an art opening and everything else that goes with launching a new brand. In short, they were in shape and I was out.

The following day, despite my best efforts, it took me until about 3pm to get out of Seattle and make the long drive to Mt. Adams, a trip that takes one first to Oregon, then east to Hood River and back up into Washington toward the charming town of Trout Lake. As I drove across two long stretches of snow on the forest service roads leading up the flanks of the mountain I knew I was getting close to a stopping point. Around the next bend I saw the awe inspiring and somewhat intimidating matte black 46' Spyder RV. I pulled up in front and was immediately welcomed for a cup of wine and introduced to the rest of the crew; Jess McMillan of Jackson (Chris' ski partner for the whole Volcano Tour), Ted and Christy Mahon of Aspen and Ian Fohrman, a photographer from Denver. I joined for the wine but opted to do some jet-boil cooking at the car where I could do the rest of my prep for morning. Less than an hour after my arrival, we all called it a night with alarms set for 3:30AM.

I don't sleep well when I'm stressed about a climb. Don't get me wrong, Adams isn't a scary climb. It's entirely non-technical. But it's long. I tossed and turned and enjoyed brief bits of sound sleep until my iPhone alerted that the time had come. Headlamp on. Underlayers, ski pants, puffy jacket, hat. I climbed out of the car ready to fire up the Jet Boil but was instead invited into a veritable feast of granola, fruit, smoothies, bananas, coffee and more. The Whole Foods sponsorship was a stroke of genius, as the human-fuel was more than taken care of.

We strapped our skis and boots to our packs and tied up the trusty tennis shoes, a classic move in the Cascades where the mileage from the last drivable point to the first skiable one is often great. As a last step, I synced my altimeter watch with my GPS. We were at less than 3500 feet. The top of Adams is at 12,280'. The quick math on that one is painful. Almost 9000' to go. This is something I purposely didn't look at until the last minute. No point having access to that sort of dreaded information until it's absolutely necessary.

But movement is a brilliant thing. It has the capacity to make time and distance pass almost unnoticeably. This phenomenon is often amplified by darkness. Under the light of the headlamp, a simple rhythm of steps can, without scale or landmarks, dispatch what would otherwise be a painfully long and boring approach. We quietly and efficiently spent the passing of dawn covering the 4 mile road slog finding ourselves at the Morrison Creek trailhead just short of sunrise.

Easy travel through soft spring snow brought us to a ridgeline at sunrise and our first views of the mountain. Mount Adams is a classic volcano; big, clean and symmetrical. Soon we had crossed through the last of the sub alpine forest and were on the vast snowfields on the south flanks of the mountain. My disadvantage of not having skied in weeks was a double edged sword as I spent the early part of the climb at the front of the pack on a set of fresh legs, leading a crew of skiers who had just the day before climbed Mt. Hood, and in previous days, 9 other major volcanoes.

Hilariously, it was a Phil Liggett impression that alerted me to the end of my tenure at the front. "The young skier from Seattle is indeed being reeled in by the peleton after a brave solo effort at the front of the pack.", and with that Chris Davenport and his long time ski partner, Ted Mahon skinned alongside and past me with what seemed like no effort at all. The remainder of the climb would continue in this theme of diminishing performance from yours truly.

Adams is a walk in the park from tree-line to a broad bench at 9000' called the Lunch Counter. From there the south face rises steeply and consistently for almost 3000 feet of uninterrupted climbing. It has almost cracked me in the past, and it took some hammer swings at my head and stomach in this instance as well. A note on the weather: it was clear, sunny, unseasonably warm and without a breath of wind. Epic conditions, to be sure, but remarkably punishing on an endless south-facing climb. I felt like a piece of fish being poached in my own clothing. All I do to keep my mind off of my headache, nausea and the sunscreen in my eyes was to count steps.

It's a trick I learned while climbing Mt. Rainier. One and two and three and four and five. Each number a breath, each 'and' a rest step. This simple exercise has an uncanny ability to focus the mind on the simple processes of stepping, breathing and counting while removing the thoughts of discomfort and scale. The counting got me to the false summit, known as Pikers Peak. It pays to know about this false summit on Adams before climbing the South Face, many an aspiring Adams summiteer has been crushed by the sight of a descent from the false summit and an imposing final climb to the true summit. Luck would have it that we were all mentally prepared to deal with this trick of the mountains, and I must admit, I even felt a bit rejuvenated by the knowledge that the worst was behind us.

In relatively tight formation we dispatched this final 600' of climbing and regrouped on the summit to enjoy broad views, warm sun and not a breath of wind. The weather was so hospitable as to allow for bare feet and short sleeves as we relaxed while the snow on the SW face softened for a smooth ski descent. Eventually we concluded that the snow was fixing to be just about perfect for a ski and transitioned into descent mode. Skins off, boots buckled, jackets on.

There is an art in correctly timing a corn ski. Corn is a particular kind of snow found in the spring and summer that results from cycles of freezing at night and thawing under the sun during the day. Early in the day it's still frozen and can rattle your teeth right out of your head. Late in the day it gets too soft and can be sticky or even downright dangerous in it's capacity to develop into slow moving avalanches. But if you're lucky and your timing is right, there is a golden hour between hard and soft when the snow is butter smooth, crazy fast and ultra stable. Those who know the joy of skiing perfect corn will often put it head to head with powder skiing, so comforting and accommodating as it is.

The southwest aspect of Mt. Adams is one of the classic corn runs of the northwest. A sustained and open pitch that drops almost 4000 feet of continuous grade and fall-line. I am happy to say that we had it just as God intended, in perfect corn. At the bottom it was a chorus of "damn.", "so sick, perfect snow!" and "that run is looonnnggg!" These good vibes echoed in our heads as we made the long push back to the RV.

We wrapped the day in lawn chairs on a bed of astroturf on the lift-gate of the RV. Beers and brats put us into that sweet, sweet place that can only be reached by replacing a calorie deficit gained by a monumental effort. Chris turned to me and asked "So, are you heading back to Seattle tonight?"

There was really only one correct response: "I think I'll stick around and head up St. Helens with you guys tomorrow if it's cool."  If groundhog day is anything like this, I'll take it.

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