The Joys of Self-Destruction

So, for those of you that have been to the Pacific Northwest for climbing, or anything in the backcountry for that matter, you know that perfect weather windows open rarely and even more rarely do they stay open for long (Carson, Nichols, and Dave, this is directed at you; BTW – Mt. Hood has been cloud free the last three days). This rings even more true on the Olympic Peninsula, where Summer and I watched the sea fog roll in, even on days that promised clear blue skies. This is also the only place in the contiguous United States that can claim a true rain forest, as the western Olympic region receives upwards of 120 inches of rain and 30 inches of mist each year. As we pondered what kind of atmospheric moisture would lead to 30 inches of mist accumulating in a year, we realized that perhaps only our friends James and Carol in the NW Highlands of Scotland could truly appreciate this. That being said, our visit coincided with a great wave of high pressure that leads to clear, blue skies.

This fortunate weather, coupled with my love of the mountains and my rapidly impending move to the flattest place in the world makes me to want to climb every topographic bump in sight. Thus, the tallest peak in the Olympic range, Mt. Olympus, was an obvious choice.

Problem #1: Despite what most mountaineers would consider to be a relatively low altitude (summit 7969 ft.), Mt. Olympus is glaciated to an extent comparable to peaks further inland that top 12,000 feet in elevation. This leads to complicated and dangerous glacier travel, which can be severely hazardous due to opening crevasses and weakening/collapsing snow bridges. In order to cross these safely, we often work in rope teams of at least two but ideally three or more, which becomes a problem when you are a solo climber.

Problem #2: The base camp for Mt. Olympus, dubbed Glacier Meadows, is 17.5 miles from the trailhead. This means that in order to set up basecamp in GM, you have to carry overnight gear plus all your climbing gear (= 50 to 60 pound pack) this not insignificant distance, which includes ~4000 ft. of elevation gain. Not easy when you are a climber of ~100 pounds in total body weight that does not have the knees, back, or feet for this load over this distance (hopefully everyone now understands why I was left as a solo climber; ps – I still love you Summer). Due to problem #2, a solo ascent was my only option, so I needed to determine route conditions.

Problem #3: Apparently, very little info can be found about this summit through the climbing community internet pages. Well, maybe this is not a problem. I could just go ask the rangers at the park offices. That is essentially their main job right? Not so fast. First, very few rangers have actually climbed to the summit of Mt. Olympus, but all are willing to offer their expertise. So, first ranger discussion, not helpful. As I was reminded during this ordeal, more than a few backcountry climbers in the national parks are unexperienced, make bad decisions, and end up needing rescues. This became abundantly clear as I was talked down to like a 5 year old while probing for simple info about route conditions, which seemed to be quite elusive. Fair enough, but surely they had climbing rangers on staff (See problem #4).

Problem #4: Sam is the only alpine ranger in the Olympic Range and was surely the best source of info in the area. I was told I could find Sam at the Hoh Rainforest Ranger station or up on the mountain via radio, and he could answer all my questions. This led to Problem 4a and 4b. Problem #4a: The day I arrived at Hoh Rainforest, Sam was on day one of his four day off stretch of the three week period. Perfect timing. Problem #4b: Sam apparently does not write route condition reports. So, the only person whose expertise I would trust has no info to report. Time for Plan B.

With a solo summit bid looking like a poor tactical decision, I opted for a different challenge. I would go car-to-basecamp-to-car in a day in a 35 mile roundtrip super hike. This would allow me to see the rainforest and the high country without the pack weight. If I limited my weight, I could run/jog much of this journey. I started out a 7am with a 15 pound pack with a full Camelbak, water filter, treats, crampons, ice axe, a jacket, and the trusty (sort of) SPOT locator so Summer could track my progress. The first 12.5 miles of the hike is mostly flat ground through the Hoh rainforest, a very unique and beautiful forest full of incredibly large old growth softwoods covered in moss and a forest floor composed mostly of ferns. Because this forest lies undisturbed by logging, many of the large trees that had fallen remain on the ground and actually start to form their own little mini-ecosystems on the high side. When you see a tree that is a couple hundred feet tall and more than 10 feet in diameter lying on it’s side, you begin to say a resounding ‘yes’ to the age old questions about trees falling in the woods and making noise. Many of these large trees formed perfect natural bridges across the creeks and rivers, and the park service had taken full advantage of this.

Large fallen tree bridge with my backpack outlined for scale.

At the 9 mile mark, I stopped in front of a ranger post, where I was ridiculed by a park volunteer who thought I had no chance of achieving my objective. She also thought that I was lying about coming in 9 miles from the trailhead that morning and accused me of camping without a permit. I exercised diplomacy and patience and simply kept moving.

Ranger guardpost at 9.1 miles that housed my accuser.

After jogging most of the flats, I arrived at the 12.5 mile mark after ~3 hours. At 12.5, the climbing begins, and it gets steep very quickly. My jogging was summarily reduced to a brisk walk. The trail switch backs up the Blue Glacier drainage, climbing ~4000 ft over 5 miles on the way to Glacier Meadows. Although the rainforest was beautiful, the thick forest canopy left no views for the taking. However, as I continued the climb, the forest began to open up. There was something sort of surreal about walking from true rainforest to active snow and glacial slopes. After more than 15 miles, the steep climbing was starting to take a toll, however the trail was becoming more interesting. Along this section, the trail is actually chopped out of a chossy loose cliff. On the downhill side, the hillside has a slope of 70-80°, is loose, and would result in about a 1000 ft slide for life. At one point, the trail crosses a 20 ft. whitewater gorge on a bridge that is ~120 ft. above the water. Finally, just before Glacier Meadows, the sketchy trail climbs out onto a loose, steep, avalanche/debris flow chute that drops into a gorge full of collapsing snow bridges, which I was told had resulted in the helicopter evacuation of a climber a few days ago. In order to get down into the chute ~100 ft below, you had to traverse across the loose scree without causing it to collapse and then grab a wire ladder that dropped down. Since this was my turnaround point, I considered skipping this task and calling it a day, but I had come so far. So, across the loose scree and down the ladder I went. Except for the traverse, the ordeal was sort of anticlimactic, but the surrounding views were amazing.

Now for the fun part; retracing 17.5 miles of sketchy slope and trail to get back to the parking lot, where surely Summer would be waiting with sugary treats. As I hit a wall in the last 7-9 miles, I continually think about a ranger’s inquiry at 9AM, which was “Do you normally do 35 mile day hikes or do you have some sort of affinity for torturing yourself?” My answer was yes.

Mt. Tom near Mt. Olympus with the White Glacier moving down into the valley.

Hoh River only a few miles from the head of the Blue Glacier, which gives this section of the river the deep aqua color.

Looking down ~120 ft. into the Hoh River Gorge at mile 13.1.

Approaching the west end of the Olympus range near the 15 mile mark.

End of the road where the trail drops into an avalanche chute full of collapsing snow bridges.

Collapsing snow bridges at the bottom of the avalanche chute that resulted into a helicopter evacuation for an unlucky climber a few days before.

The sketchy loose traverse that leads to the cable ladder.

The infamous cable ladder that leads down into the avalanche chute.