Western Provocation – Part 3 of 3

(Read Part 1)
(Read Part 2)

As I finished the first of my two bottles of water I thought seriously about turning around for the first time. It was only 9:50am, and the sun hadn’t even risen over the ridge to my right yet. Though it was close, through the backlit haze highlighting the ridge above me I could see the beginnings of a couple sundogs to the left and right of where the sun was coming up, and even the slightest indication of a sun pillar. It would clear the ridge soon, although I don’t know why that seemed like such a positive change to my situation, but it did.

The daunting task ahead of me. The remaining slope to the summit ridge, looking nearly straight up a sheet of wind scoured ice.
The sun was minutes from rising over the ridge at this point, and when I shot this there was a good 35mph wind in my face

I was clearly taken aback, even if I didn’t know it at the time, by how ridiculously exhausted I was, not to mention my toe situation. To even think about going back at that point I’d have to have been nearly spent. But as I thought about it, I really had too little knowledge and confidence about how to down-climb something like what I’d come up. With ropes and a partner I could’ve pulled it off but not alone, ropeless, and with only one ice axe and numb toes. I wasn’t sure if I was rationalizing or not at the time, but I eventually figured it’d be safer for me to continue climbing up the slope to the summit ridge and, if still so inclined, turn back from there. The main trail, useable in other times of year, follows the ridge to Humphrey’s summit from a ‘saddle’ at around 11,800 feet between Humphrey’s and Agassiz Peaks (see map picture). The way down from there is much more gradual and frequented, so returning via that route would likely be without the need for too much scrambling or climbing. Not like what I was in the middle of at the time anyway. So newly half-resolved to continue climbing, I resumed my snail’s pace up the slope. I felt like I hadn’t caught my breath fully in over an hour, and after innumerable jaunts and stops I looked at my watch and saw it was 10:30am, time to try and raise Aimee on the radio. She was quick to pick up, and reception was reassuringly good. I gave her the gist of my situation and indicated I may in fact turn back, which she of course fully supported. I could hear trepidation in her replies in response to my tense and beaten tone. But having decided the safest play was to continue up we set another time to make contact, 11:30am, and I moved on with visions of Aimee enjoying a bloody mary inside the warm ski lodge blazing in my mind. The last third of the slope to the ridge was a maze of basaltic boulders, ice, and snow pits. The grade mercifully lessened and slowly but surely the landscape seemed to fall away around me. At last, in stumbling and shaky fashion, I had attained the ridge.

The full breath of the slope, Dutchman’s Glade, and the woods from which I’d emerged way beyond

My route up from the glade, with the other two false summits to the left


The summit ridge looking south. Agassiz Peak (12,356 feet) on the right, Fremont Peak (11,969 feet) to the left


Me on the summit ridge. One false summit to my left, the real deal just beyond

Seeing over the mountains, to the east at last, the view was stupefying. Frankly, it was almost gratification enough. The wind re-introduced itself with a full force kick to the face once I reached the ridge too, every bit of 50 mph. I battled it the last long trek and was fully leaned into it. I looked back, down the slope, through Dutchman’s Glade, to the saplings that led back into the woods from which I’d come, and saw what I hadn’t seen before. Why I was so tired, why I feared for my safety, why I’d come to try such a thing alone in the first place, and why I had to achieve the summit after all. Besides, wasted as I was the summit, for the first time in the affair, was within sight. My route straight up the slope to the ridge had allowed me to skip two of the three false summits that lead up the ridge to the top. It was a shortcut, but an ill-advised and absolutely debilitating one. I could see tracks again, and the last slog up the ridge was refreshingly mindless. Stay to the left of the cornice, other than that put your head down and put one foot in front of the other. Up the penultimate slope, the last false summit, and then the final slope. It was drudgery, without question. The hollow gulps of air I was continuing to breath in did nothing to appease my exhaustion and windedness, and the solid wall of wind that I was leaning against on the right didn’t help either; the last bit was a grind if there ever was one. After a few high steps that really burned my thighs I looked up and ahead of me the mountain dropped off, I could see unabated to the north. There was no more up, I’d done it. The summit. It was 11:20am, and I was standing alone atop the highest point in Arizona – 12,633 feet.

Summit! Looking west northwest


Looking northeast


There I am on top. I swear it’s me. In full protective gear of course

Through my haze of exhaustion and altitude induced lightheadedness it was still actually pretty amazing. I wanted some reassurance that I was there though for some reason, but the wooden post that marks the top that I’d seen in so many summertime pictures in doing my research, was completely buried under at least four feet of snow and ice. I could gauge the depth because in those same pictures from strangers’ hikes to the top there were also clearly visible several cairns at the summit for people to get respite from the ever-present winds. The semi-circular cairns were poking just through the snowpack in places, enough to identify them anyway. Since these were buried, there was no place to get out of the wind for a breather, so I just sat down right on top. I took in the view for a spell and while it wasn’t crystal clear, the visibility was good enough to not only see the Sunset Crater close by and to the northeast, but off to the northwest there it was, red and hulking near the horizon, the great rift of our planet, the Grand Canyon. Didn’t know at the time that it would end up escaping us, for the year anyway.

Looking due east


Me on top. Notice I set this shot up with the camera aimed directly at the sun, with me in front. Not the kind of mistake I’d make in my right mind!


Trying to look cool, actually freezing


Trying to feel warm, and feel my toes

I scrambled about the summit in the near constant 50 mph winds with the camera, shooting a ton of photos, and prepared myself for the return journey. The winds being what they were and an air temperature of 5 degrees Fahrenheit (for a lovely wind-chill temp of 24 below zero) made the summit, that day, no place to linger. So after throwing a handful of rocks in my pack and a last look around, I left the summit behind.

The summit’s view to the southeast, and my last picture from the top


Agassiz Peak from the saddle


Fremont Peak and its deep valley from the saddle

The hike along the ridge, over the false summits, and eventually into the saddle between Humphrey’s and Agassiz Peaks was grandiose and inspiring. I was enjoying the hell out of this bit when I realized it was 11:30, time to try Aimee on the radio again. I gave her the good news and estimated the approximate time I’d make it back to camp, and we agreed we didn’t need another night in the freezing cold. Not now that I’d succeeded, and fairly early at that. We’d have plenty of time to pack up and hike out before dark. So Aimee set to meet me at camp and break it down for us while waiting for me to return. I got off the radio and at the same point turned west to head down from the summit ridge, back into the steep. The entire hike back down was a slog and I frankly don’t recall much, but I know I hardly stopped and took zero pictures, which is unlike me. I do remember falling into a couple tree traps of deep loose powder up to my chest, having to kind of monkey crawl my way out. I was destroyed with fatigue, although it was turning into a beautiful day. By 1pm the sun had burned off most of the high altitude cirrus clouds and was beginning to do some actual warming, not just lighting, for me. Plus now off the ridge and in the woods the wind was again virtually non existent, which was a dream. At around 2:30pm I rounded the last bend and saw the remains of our camp and Aimee awaiting my arrival. I stumbled into our clearing and hit the deck like a ton of bricks, I’d been trekking, climbing, and slogging on the mountain for seven and a half hours. Still couldn’t feel my toes by the way (feeling returned much later when we were relaxing in a restaurant enjoying a hot meal, no permanent damage). I relayed bits and pieces to Aimee, but mostly I just wanted to chug water and get the last bit back to the car done with. I’d had enough hiking through snow for this trip. So we did our best to erase the signs of our camp and agonizingly pushed back to the trailhead through the sunny melting forest.

My trail map. The solid line is the standard trail, indistinguishable in winter.
The dashed route is my improvised way where it deviated, through the glade and up the slope to the summit ridge

It’s still setting in what all I learned on that climb, but it’s nothing too profound or really even all that interesting to anyone but me. I didn’t achieve the impossible or really even the improbable, but I’d done what I set out to. And that, because of how much it challenged me personally, is why I tried to do it in the first place, to find out if I could. I’m not sure if mountaineering is totally my game, but I must admit enjoying - more than I expected - bagging a peak. I’m still a backpacker at heart but there is something to be said for, when in the wilderness, hitting a high point to take it all in - when possible. Sooner than expected a new challenge is beckoning, and the silhouetted profile of California’s Mt. Whitney is looming on my mind’s horizon . . .