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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 16, 2016 - 03:19pm PT
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Polarchrome, 1st ascent: Rob Rohn and James Haberl, 1984.
Mount Huntington, West Face, P 11,300 Traverse, and McKinley, Reality Ridge. Rob Rohn and I flew to the west fork of the Ruth Glacier on May 16 with the intention of alpine climbing and skiing in the area from a central base. On May 17 and 18 we ascended the southwest ridge of P 11,300, descending the following day via the southeast ridge. We found the route challenging and it gave us a good indication of conditions. (Grade V, F7, A1.) On May 21 we moved over to the Tokositna Glacier by the French Icefall, but a substantial storm forced us back to Base the next day. Not until June 1 did the weather allow us to return to our cache on the Tokositna and begin our climb of a new line on Huntington’s west face to the left of previous ascents. Our approach to the Tokositna was by the northwest face of P 9680. Because the French Icefall was holding the snow of an eight-day storm, our new approach was safer. The route on Huntington was climbed in three days, two days on the west face. We joined the intricate northwest ridge and climbed to just 200 feet short of the summit. We were on the face, climbing for 30 hours on varied and technical terrain. The complex crux was low. Sustained, rotten ice, comparable to Grade V water-ice, provided trying moments. We bivouacked twice on the face. Since there were no decent bivouac sites, hard-earned ice platforms had to suffice. Descent from the peak on June 5 by the northwest (French) ridge was completed in one long day; the complicated steps in the French ridge were the trickiest sections (NCCS VI, F7, A1.) After another storm-enforced rest of four days in our Ruth Glacier Base Camp, Rob and I headed out for our final climb, McKinley’s Reality Ridge, which we ascended in five long days. Snow conditions were horrendous, making the delicate climbing on the sustained, knife-edged, scary, double-corniced portions of the ridge very tenuous. The bivouacs on the route are excellent, reasonably spaced and comfortably located between some quite difficult ridge climbing. (NCCS VI, F5, A2.) Deep snow along the southeast spur and the fact that we were already five days overdue spurred our decision to descend the South Buttress; an attempt on the summit was unrealistic. Going down the South Buttress had the usual problems of a long and tiring descent, but eventually we made it. By now, there was concern in Talkeetna and unfortunately a search was being initiated just a few hours before our safe arrival at the Kahiltna airstrip. Once again I want to thank the rangers and Talkeetna Air Taxi and tell them we are sorry we were so late!
James Haberl, Alpine Club of Canada
American Alpine Journal 1985
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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 17, 2016 - 04:02pm PT
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Quirk/Nettle 1989
Moose's Tooth and Huntington
James Quirk, Unaffiliated
DAVE NETTLE AND I hadn’t been in Talkeetna for more than ten minutes when we descended on the bar at the Fairview Inn. One of the folks present was Doug Geeting, our pilot. We mentioned to him that we were going to climb Mount Huntington and that he would be flying us to the Upper Tokositna Glacier. His eyes narrowed and he launched into a rubber-faced account of a flight to the Tokositna in winter. The story ended with Doug looking me straight in the eye and saying, “I thought I was going to die.” With Doug’s last words ringing in our ears, all the planning, scheming and dreaming ended, and our Alaskan adventure began. Our plan had been to climb Mount Huntington’s west face via the Harvard route, made famous by Dave Roberts’ book, Mountain of My Fears, and the tragic death of Ed Bemd on the first ascent.
While we still remembered what the sun looked like, we were waiting, like everyone else, to be flown into Denali National Park. The droning of planes awakened us from a peaceful slumber on Day Two in Talkeetna. Getting a flight to the Tokositna Glacier requires perfect weather, and Doug assured us that this was not going to happen soon. We decided to settle on flying into the Sheldon Amphitheater below the Moose’s Tooth and give that peak’s west ridge a shot rather than hanging off bar stools in Talkeetna for another night.
Immediately after landing, Dave and I began to fidget, unable to sit out the day on the glacier. Promising ourselves to take it easy, we started climbing. Since the Moose’s Tooth was not our main objective, we hadn’t studied the route description. Traveling past the original start, we opted for a couloir that rises on the south side of the west ridge. From there we would follow the entire ridge. Ten hours later, after quivering up some 5.7 snow- covered slag, we decided to sleep.
Day Two on the west ridge found us tired and unmotivated after the long sprint from Talkeetna. Having joined the German route at 7600 feet, we meandered up the ridge, shooting for a 9000-foot col which looked within easy striking distance and a likely bivouac spot. In the col, we found 50° to 65° alpine ice and not a flat spot in sight. We ended up climbing simultaneously for two hours before we found rocks to bivouac under. We had hoped for an easy day and discovered that Alaskan “easy” is still damned hard.
The next morning was perfectly clear. After about 350 feet of moderate climbing, we were on the west summit of the Moose’s Tooth. We knew from the route description in The Fifty Classic Climbs that the Germans who made the first ascent had left ropes at a couple of key spots where they had rappelled to make climbing back a possibility. Slowly, we began to realize that this maneuver requires at least two ropes. We had only one!
As we dropped into Englishman’s Col, our sense of commitment increased exponentially with each step. Dave climbed down into the col to search for a way around rappelling into it. I watched his form disappear over a small rise, hoping beyond hope that one of us would have the guts to call this climb folly. I heard a shout for me to follow. Four years of college and all I could think was, “Oh hell!”
After Dave had put his foot through a cornice and almost fallen 3000 feet onto the Buckskin Glacier, we started to climb out of the col. Now I don’t mean to complain, but my ice-climbing experience was limited to screwing around on ice “boogers” in the Tahoe region. Peering at Dave’s butt disappearing over a small rise on 80° ice, I realized that I’d traveled a long way to learn how to ice climb, a real initiation under fire.
After surmounting the ice bulge, we emerged on the ridge and from here moved together towards the true summit. Climbing this ridge will go down as one of the most incredible experiences of my entire life. It was like standing on the biggest wave in the world, suspended by clouds and fear, listening to Hendrix’s version of Kiss the Sky, naked. And people wonder why we climb!
Upon reaching the true summit along with the afternoon clouds, we looked back and could reminisce about the climbing of the day. We sat smugly on the summit, visually panning the mile-long ridge and noting all the high points of the day, or the places we almost turned back; take your pick. Our ascent appears to be the third of the whole west ridge to the main peak. Actually the direct start had been done before, but we were the first to climb this variation and go on to the main summit.
Suddenly, like a slap across the face, it dawned on me that we had to go back over the same ridge. Arghh! However, the ground we had to return on was now familiar and, for the first time all day, we were heading toward food and sleep, which made a big difference in motivation and velocity.
Returning to Base Camp on the Ruth Glacier under perfect skies we heard a rumor that two other climbers had been flown to the Tokositna Glacier the day before. Armed with this knowledge, we successfully “sand-bagged” Doug Geeting into giving the thumbs up for flying us to the upper Tokositna. The flight went without a hitch, but there is something incredibly disconcerting about your pilot jumping up and down in the snow, much happier than you are about having made a safe landing.
Once in the Tokositna basin, our thoughts immediately strayed from the Harvard route and to a magnificent ramp system to the left of the Harvard route and to the right of the Coulton-Leach route. It looked as if this ramp linked with the Harvard route but, as usual, we didn’t have a clue. After a short discussion, Dave said, “Jim, I think we should go there.” “Oh … OK,” I replied.
At 8:30 on the bitterly cold morning of May 23, we started up the initial snow slopes with four days of food and bivouac gear. The first part of the route above the schrund, which looked easy from below, turned into steep ice climbing. We wondered what the ramp would be like.
The weather had been perfect: clear and cold. However, small clouds began moving in and a light snow started to fall. I looked back at Denali and whistled to myself at the top two-thirds which were covered with huge lenticular clouds. Alaskan weather anxiety began to set in and eat away at my fortitude.
After climbing the lower snowfield, we traversed left for 200 feet. We then ascended the snowfield, which was at least 50°, and ended at the base of the prominent ramp system that angles up and right to join the Harvard route. The first four rope-lengths of the ramp were actually steep steps with sections of vertical and 75° water ice.
A short section of vertical and then 50° ice led to a narrow gully with 55° black ice that was on the outside half of the ramp. Dave led off. Sixty feet into his lead, the tinkling of icy snow could be heard far above us. I looked up to see a white wave of snow engulf Dave and thought, “This is what it feels like just before you die…” The snow hissed all around us and the pressure built up on the anchors and on Dave, hanging precariously from his tools, twenty feet above his last screw. Dave claims to this day he couldn’t tell what was tighter, the grip on his tools or his sphincter. Three big spindrift avalanches swept over us before we could climb out of this chute. As I pulled up to the belay, all I could think about was going down. I looked at Dave and with a demonic gleam in his eye he said, “Well, it looks as if we’re in for all fifteen rounds now.”
The next seven pitches climbed the left side of the ramp gradually steepening and hugging a rock wall. From there we could see the spindrift avalanches like clockwork shoot down the gully to where we had been. Emotionally and physically drained, we reached the top of the ramp and angled up and right to a rocky section where we found an old bolt anchor and other signs of the Harvard route. Searching in vain for a place to lie down that wasn’t being bombarded by spindrift, we decided to move in the only direction that made any sense: up.
Continuing right at the top of the ramp and then climbing straight up through a rock band brought us to the base of the summit icefield. We moved together to the only rocks we could see on the face, hoping we would be able to bivouac there. It was our last option aside from the summit. Finding a ledge on these rocks, we began to chop away at the ice as another spindrift avalanche swept over us. We reached this spot at 6:30 A.M. on May 24 in a full-blown storm. At this bivy, I fell asleep and dreamed that people had rented my sleeping bag. They were really happy; they had gotten a room with a view.
We rested and brewed for seven hours and then decided to go for the summit. On top, two hours later, instead of exultation, all I felt was relief and dread. Brutally tired and looking forward to a long, intricate descent, the specter of Ed Bernd played across my mind. Below us, an avalanche swept down the face.
Many hours later, we made the last rappel down our ascent route. Our tracks on the glacier had been covered by numerous avalanches. We wallowed through waist-deep snow and collapsed. That night the weather socked in and it was ten days before we even made radio contact with anyone. It was another four before a plane could fly in and pick us up.
Dave and I played a lot of cribbage in those two weeks. I ended up losing the thirty-second game of our tournament and had to buy the beer when we were flown out. The route on Huntington had taken us 36 hours to complete and we waited 336 hours on the glacier to be flown out. The wait was worth it, but it would have been better if I had brought marked cards.
Summary of Statistics:
Area: Alaska Range.
Ascents: Moose’s Tooth, 3150 meters, 10,335 feet, via Entire West Ridge, Third Ascent of the Main Summit, May 14 to 16, 1989.
Mount Huntington, 3731 meters, 12,240 feet, via a new route between the Harvard and the Colton-Leach routes, May 23 and 24, 1989.
Personnel: David Nettle, James Quirk.
American Alpine Journal 1990
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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 18, 2016 - 06:49pm PT
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The Phantom Wall (South West Face): Jay Smith and Paul Teare, 1991.
Huntington’s Phantom Wall
Jay Smith
“HEY, LADDIE. Had a look lately?”
“Huh?” I moaned, as it felt as if only minutes before I had dropped off to sleep. I pulled my gloved hands out from my armpits and wiggled my cold toes. Then turning to the right, my anchor rope pulled tight and I suddenly remembered where I was. I popped my head out of the bivy sack at once.
Peal Teare was sitting up half out of his sack pointing toward Mount Hunter, an immense cloud now obscuring its summit plateau.
“Hell, doesn’t look too promising now, does it?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said as he fired up the MSR stove.
Our meager accommodations for the night, what there was of them in the Alaska Range during early May, 1990, had been a 3x10-foot slot carved into an exposed snow fin. We were perched 4000 feet above a narrow fork of the Tokositna Glacier on Mount Huntington’s southwest face, attempting a new route on the mountain’s largest and last unclimbed wall. The night, although only five hours long, had been a cold one without the comforts of a sleeping bag and had dragged on with the cold and discomfort seeping into our bones. Before I finally dropped off to sleep, my last memory was of Paul’s toes clicking together as he tried to keep the circulation moving while waiting for the Grabbers to kick in. (These were the chemical heat packs we inserted into our inner boots for warmth. The old lighter-than-sleeping-bag theory! Nice try!)
Within an hour, we had eaten, packed and started the next lead, a 5.10 crack that was packed with ice and now A2. Before I got twenty feet up, it was snowing. By the end of the pitch, the visibility was down to forty feet with the flakes growing in size and volume. One more free pitch on thinly iced rock slabs and Paul had us on the large snowfield at two-thirds height. I continued the next lead without even stopping at the belay and headed for a large rock outcrop for a full rope-length. Small powder sloughs passed to the right and left as I dashed for the security of the stone abutment. Slamming in a knife-blade, I sat on the snow and brought Paul up.
“I think it’s going to get serious here really fast. What do you think?” he asked as we both turned and stared at the route ahead.
The next section involved traversing the snowfield to the right for several hundred feet before following a 1500-foot fluting which provided drainage for the entire summit snowfield. Just then a powder avalanche shot airborne off an overhang midway across the traverse. We turned to each other and graciously declined the next lead. We gazed leftward to check the options when another slough swept just ten feet beyond us and began to creep our way. Soon we were buried under six inches of spindrift and it was clear this was no place to admire the view. We simul-climbed muy rápido to a larger outcrop in hopes of finding shelter, giving the storm one last chance to stop.
Five minutes of studying the Washburn photo identified the quickest line of descent to Base Camp. To retreat down our line of ascent would be long and dangerous in a storm and place us 2000 feet below and several miles away from camp. No, our best bet was to try to traverse, down-climb and rappel a ramp system which led to the top of the Stegosaurus on the Harvard route. From there it would be about six rappels into the basin we called home. As we discussed, a thunderous roar disrupted our conversation as the largest avalanche yet swept around both sides of our fortification.
“I think we best beat feet out of here while we still can,” suggested Paul.
We began the 2500-foot descent as the storm grew in intensity.
* * * * *
A year later, as we heaped our eight huge mule bags onto the tarmac in Talkeetna, a man carrying a small white poodle strolled out of the Hudson Air Service hangar and stared at our immense pile.
“You boys fly’n into the Kahiltna?” he asked.
“No, we’re going into the Tokositna, Mount Huntington.”
“Well, if ya were goin’ into the Kahiltna, I could fly ya right now, but the Tokositna. Well that’s a bit tricky. Yeh, it’s kinda socked in at the moment. Many of ya?” he asked, eyeing the mountain of gear.
“Just the two of us.”
“Shore have a lot of stuff,” he stated, eyebrows raised.
“We like to travel light. Only the bare essentials.”
Cliff Hudson just shook his head, smiled and said his son Jay would have to fly us in with the more powerful turbo-prop 206 Cessna.
“Come back in the morning and we’ll see what we can do.”
The wings tipped at a dizzying angle before leveling out on the final approach. The view ahead was all rock and ice of the towering walls of Huntington’s west face. No aborted landings here. The narrow cirque left no room for error.
Jay Hudson set us down on the glacier as if he were simply pulling his cab to the side of the curb. Quickly, we unloaded the aircraft and he sped away into rapidly enclosing clouds. We dragged our hefty pile an entire thirty feet before erecting Base Camp. Then, we introduced ourselves to our new neighbors, who were also trying a new route on the hill.
Our previous year’s two attempts on the route had given us much insight as to the snow conditions needed for a successful ascent. Since it had been snowing relentlessly for nearly a month, there was little need to hurry. Avalanches poured down every conceivable path as the sun struck the face for the first time in a week.
Eight days after our arrival in Base Camp, Huntington appeared to be coming into fine form. Yesterday, it had cleared in the morning and we prepared for the route while avalanches rocked the region. By late afternoon, the walls grew silent and we knew that our route had shed its new coat.
The “Phantom Wall,” due to its hidden nature in the confines of a lower fork of the Tokositna, had been overlooked completely, not easily visible from any vantage point. Or perhaps it was because of the approach required to reach its start, 2000 feet below Base Camp, the closest available landing strip. But most likely, its immense size and committing nature had been the greatest deterrent. The 6000-foot funnel-like face would be a death trap if you were caught in its belly during a storm.
We knew that the key to success was to be fast and light, though this time we opted for sleeping bags since the morning air temperature was dipping below -15° C.
At one A.M., we cached our skis after an exciting high-speed chase by headlamp on crusty snow and a crevasse-strewn glacier. Ahead, our track from previous days had been covered by avalanche debris. We tumbled through, made a rappel into a couloir and down-climbed into “Death Valley.” God, what a place! Monstrous cornices perched thousands of feet over this tiny area not much wider than a football field. This was no place to dawdle. We broke out the rope and quickly made for the schrund across thousands of tons of fresh rocks and debris.
The first hard bit had changed radically from a year before. Instead of easy ice to the right of the hanging glacier guarding the entrance to the face, we now had to climb its flank. I swung my picks at the rock-filled, fractured and overhanging ice. With feet scraping on verglas-covered slabs, I wished I had grabbed the screws from Paul before embarking on the “easy” wake-up pitch. My feet popped only four times before the sidewall eased to vertical. I tied off my tools and belayed Paul up. A few delicate moves and he had us on easier ground. Now was our chance to make up for lost time. We simul-climbed unroped up huge gouged grooves in the ice face till our calves screamed for relief.
By ten A.M., we had surmounted one more difficult ice pitch and climbed together across the second snow band to the start of the large rock face at just over mid-height. This section could become a shooting gallery with us being the clay pigeons. We were glad the sun had still not hit its top.
Paul climbed quickly up the black diorite vein which formed the route amongst steep, smooth walls, one tool in ice and the other hand laybacking on some dubious flake. Crampons on edges, then snow, then ice. This was mixed climbing at its best. It was never too desperate, but never with much protection. It called for techniques one could never learn from books. Simply great and all free!
We passed our old bivouac site just after midday. Up a short aid section and then we continued up more mixed ground. Paul shot past and we were soon climbing together again above our previous high point to the wall’s only safe bivouac. Basking in the evening sun on a perfectly sheltered platform, we stretched out, brewed up and feasted on Raman. Just one more day! We weren’t asking for much, just another 24 hours and we’d be done with this mountain.
Crrrack! The sound of cannons popped our bubble. “Bloody hell! Check it out!” Paul screamed as he jumped up for a better view.
“Whoooa!” was all I could manage as we watched truck-sized granite blocks roar down from high off the south ridge. They dislodged all in their path and then terrifyingly engulfed the bottom-most section of our route. It was the only thing, other than us and the sun, that had moved all day. But it presented a convincing argument that Death Valley was no place to gawk.
The dawn was crystalline. Our prayers answered, we were climbing by eight A.M. No packs, no water, a skeleton rack and one Powerbar each. We again climbed 50 meters apart. Protecting only occasionally, we had unquestioned confidence in each others judgement and ability. We were a good team, having endured many alpine faces together before.
Miles above, the ice hardened. Our dull crampons and tools forced us to belay. Three more leads up the final flutings placed us on top with a vista for a king. For hundreds of miles peaks rose in the distance and not a single cloud was to be seen. We rejoiced at our luck and the excellent climbing we had enjoyed. Basking in the sun and our glory, we remained thirty minutes before starting down.
The descent went smoothly till a wee landslide missed us by several feet and swept down our next rappel. Increasing our speed tenfold, we were back in camp for supper and our last two beers.
Summary of Statistics:
Area: Alaska Range
New Route: Mount Huntington, 3731 meters, 12,240 feet, Southwest Face, May 20-21, 1991 (Jay Smith, Paul Teare).
American Alpine Journal 1992
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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 19, 2016 - 07:17am PT
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"Count Zero", Bruce Miller and Clay Wadman: 1992
Count Zero on Huntington
Clay Wadman, Unaffiliated
In 1991, I SAT IN BASE CAMP with my friends Gordy Kito and Ritt Kellogg while Jay Smith and Paul Teare climbed the Phantom Wall. (See AAJ, 1992, pages 50-58.) We had been storm-bound for ten days when they arrived. The weather remained unsettled and we slowly strung out every bit of rope we had. We had the support of a grant from the American Alpine Club Fellowship Fund and the thought that someone was interested in our success pushed us on.
After 27 days on the glacier, we had climbed eleven pitches and fixed seven ropes on a prominent buttress on Huntington’s west face. The climbing was difficult (5.9, A3+) up steep, snow-covered granite. With time we grew to understand the buttress with more detail. It seemed to grow in its beauty as well as its mystery. It was hard to grasp its size or to guess under which snow-laced features we might find a bivouac.
In the end we retreated. I remember watching Ritt’s enthusiasm crash as we returned to camp after pulling the ropes. He had never had a moment of doubt that we would climb the buttress. He always remained quietly psyched, bounding with energy. A sad postscript was Ritt’s tragic death on Mount Foraker this summer. He was a person with a truly good heart. The mountains will miss his laughter.
* * * * *
By May of 1992,I had made all the proper sacrifices: job, relationship with all the usual sort of Mark Twight memorials. All the signs looked bad. It had been a brutal season for Denali. The weather was bad. I felt exhausted and unfit. To top things off, my partner Bruce Miller had smashed his index finger while working on a flagstone patio. His finger swelled so much that on the drive to Seattle we drilled a hole in the nail with a 1/16" bit to relieve the pressure.
From that point on, things turned around. We were in the air less than an hour after arriving in Talkeetna. Once again we flew with Jay Hudson, landing on the glacier on June 1. The weather had been bad in May but seemed to be clearing now. The buttress was dry and upon closer reconnaissance appeared to have thin ice runnels plastering some dihedrals to the left of the line Gordy, Ritt and I had tried. About 1000 feet up, the two lines intersected at our high point of the previous year.
On our second day, we fixed three pitches, stringing out all our rope. Climbing up the series of exfoliated flakes with rock shoes and a chalk bag, we reached the bottom ice runnel. Two days of weather kept us in the tent. I welcomed the chance to sew up the last little tears in my gear, to eat and to rest before the climb.
On June 5, we woke to clear skies. We had packed and repacked, trying to limit our loads to an absolute minimum. With three days’ food and five fuel canisters our commitment was set. Leaving the security of camp at eight A.M., we were at the top of our ropes by ten o’clock. After jümaring in double boots,
I was able to clamp on my crampons at the top anchors and traverse up into the narrow runnel. Bulging to 90°, the ice laced the deep north-facing comer above us. The comer rose for 50 meters before it stopped. Some rock climbing linked us to a second comer system. We resorted to hauling after a brutal struggle up the first lead. Steep, sustained ice climbing with short mixed sections took us to a sling belay at the high point of last year. As I belayed, I looked towards the quick draw and pin that I had rappelled off twelve months earlier. At that time, I was certain I would never return.
Now, as the sun set, we were breaking into new terrain. The next pitch, the crux, climbed through the bottleneck of the buttress. This golden overhanging section of the wall is split on its left side by a sort of hanging comer system. Once above this, we entered a straight-in gully that divides the prow of the buttress. Bruce took a fall on this pitch when a crystal broke on the edge of the crack into which he was camming his tool.
As night set in, we established ourselves in the upper gullies. Vertical ice interrupted the flow in places, but the ice stayed thick and consistent. By three A.M., we had climbed nine pitches. Too exhausted to continue, we carved a minute platform for our tent. Perched 1500 feet off the glacier, the pre-dawn colors of the sky began to reflect on Hunter’s northern flanks several miles to our west.
By eight A.M., we were up and moving. Clouds had moved in and it was snowing steadily. Our best guess was that we were close to the top of the buttress. After simul-climbing 450 feet of 60° ice, we found ourselves on a knife-edged cornice. What had appeared from below to be the rising snow-fields of the Colton-Leach route was in fact a deception. Below us, the far side of the buttress dropped away in a giant gash to the steep ice gully of the Colton-Leach route.
After a brutal pitch of unconsolidated snow, we reached a final step of rotten rock, climbing up and out of the clouds. Below us, a sea of softly lit clouds stretched out to Mount Hunter. Topping out at about six P.M., we joined the Colton-Leach route at mid height on the face. Below us dropped our “Ice-Breaker Buttress,” an 18-pitch variation to the Colton-Leach route.
Simul-climbing for another hour, we placed our bivouac as high as possible before entering the thinner runnels of the upper face. A good meal in the sun and twelve hours of sleep put us in good shape for the top.
With packs as light as could be hoped for, we left camp at about eight o’clock the next morning. The early morning cold took its toll on fingers and toes, but by midday we were high on the face. As we entered the feature referred to as the “snow arête,” the climbing slowed considerably. What had looked like two or three pitches stretched out to six. We were traversing a series of flutings. The north side of these was unconsolidated sugar snow several feet deep over brittle ice or worse, rock. The south side was calf-pumping blue water-ice. By evening, we had reached the far side of these snowfields, but we were exhausted.
As we debated rappelling, I scouted an unlikely traverse. Linking a thin strip of névé, I was able to push through to a series of exit ramps. Two more pitches took us to the ridge crest by eleven P.M. Now, as night set in, the cold cut through me. On the ridge, a soft breeze off the south face froze every bit of moisture. Continuing up what at that point was the Harvard route, Bruce found a tiny bivouac. By two A.M., we were wrapped in our sleeping bags, cooking our last Ramen. The cold kept us awake all night. Another 18-hour day had made apparent how minimum our supplies actually were. With no safety buffer, we prayed for one more day of clear weather.
After staying in the tent until the sun hit at eleven the next morning, we slowly packed camp. Crystal blue skies laced with far-away cirrus clouds beckoned us on. Tying our jackets around our waists, we simul-climbed the steep icefields leading toward the summit. After crossing a snow plateau at the crest of the French ridge, we climbed three pitches of corniced ridge to the top. We spent half an hour taking in the view and eating our last two cookies before heading down.
In Nick Colton’s account of Huntington, he had said it took them only a few hours to descend. Jay Smith and Michael Covington had separately described the rappels down the Harvard route to us as straightforward. Nonetheless, as we rappelled off ice screws towards the lip of the face below us, I felt terrified, as if something was sure to go wrong. Ancient anchors and slings appeared and I kept thinking of Roberts’ book, Mountain of My Fear. I checked and rechecked my rappel rig.
On our sixth rappel, the anchors disappeared and so we continued straight down, leaving a nut and a sling. Below us, the tremendous south face, the Phantom Wall, yawned for thousands of feet into the dark and chaotic depths of the lower Tokositna Glacier. Then, the next rappel took us to a Japanese fixed line, bleached white and stiff over the years, backed up by a marginal 0.5 tri-cam. Slowly Bruce lowered out of sight on a 50-meter rappel, half of it free-hanging, that took us to an ancient Japanese camp, desecrated by a dozen bolts. We knew we were finally on route.
Night was upon us and in the cold everything began to freeze. Our ropes, drenched from rappelling, turned stiff and my gloves froze. Bruce lent me his extra glove liners, saving me from frostbite. Finally, we were approaching the Stegosaurus. As I rappelled down the final wall, one of the ropes wrapped around a large block. When I flipped it, the entire block gave way. I examined the rope and found it had been cut through to the core in several places. I prusiked back up and we began to do 25-meter rappels.
The night passed. Bruce rappelled on our single rope with the packs and belayed me while I climbed down. We rappelled over the bergschrund off our
final ice screw at three A.M. The walk to camp took an hour, enlivened by a harrowing rappel off a small dead man in deep powder. We rested for two full days before finding the resolve to jümar up and clean our fixed rope.
Summary of Statistics:
Area: Alaska Range.
Partial New Route: Mount Huntington, 3731 meters, 12,240 feet, West Face. “Count Zero,” an 18-pitch Direct Start to the Colton-Leach Route. Summit reached June 8, 1992 (Bruce Miller, Clay Wadman).
American Alpine Journal 1993
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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 20, 2016 - 01:46pm PT
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Mt. Huntington, The Imperfect Apparition to upper Harvard Route: Fabrizio Zangrilli and Jack Tackle, 2005.
Twenty-six years ago I skied past the looming north face of Mt. Huntington on my way to attempt a route we’d later call the Isis Face. Perfect symmetry and complex faces always drew me to Huntington, but until May 2004 I had never attempted to climb it.
In 2005 I had spent a week in the Ruth with Kevin Mahoney attempting new ice lines, only to find out that GWB is clearly wrong about global warming. Slush, running water, and rockfall abounded wherever we went. Then, on May 15, Fabrizio Zangrilli and I landed on the west fork of the Tokositna with hopes of climbing a new route on the Phantom Wall, to the right of the Harvard Route but independent of the Smith-Teare route.
After two days of recon and assessment that global warming was affecting more than just the Ruth, on May 19 we started the route by rappelling into the face from the lowest point of the Stegosaurus [the serrated lower ridge of the original Harvard Route]. The terrain was moderate alpine climbing, including a prominent couloir just east of the ridge, and we simul- climbed all but one pitch up to the main rock headwall in the middle of the face. We struck out right onto beautiful brown granite, some of the best stone I have seen in the range, and got quickly consumed by “the business” of our objective. It was Fabrizio’s block, so he led two mixed pitches that followed a right-leaning, traversing weakness. By the end of the second pitch he found himself faced with an Alaska Range anomaly—a chimney system that was running with water at 4:00 p.m. at 10,200', a veritable shower stall. The thought of being soaked to the skin and enduring a bivy higher up on unknown terrain being unappealing, we left our two ropes fixed and rapped back to a snowfield where we could chop a bivy ledge, and spent the evening waiting for the water to freeze.
At 4:00 a.m. the second day, we left the bivy gear and went light for the summit, intending to just climb up and back in a single push. When we reached the former shower-stall chimney, it was a seized-up gorgeous section of mixed climbing for two more pitches, leading us to a ramp system. Fabrizio took over, and we pitched out and then simul-climbed six pitches across the face into the center wall, which led us to the second, and crux, rock band. I searched for a weakness and found an amazing flaring dihedral with a thin strip of ice in the back. It led to easy ground above but, although it was only 80 feet, it proved to be the most challenging part of the route. We lost time working on this pitch, first Fabrizio, then I. Finally, with some creative problem solving, I broke through our temporary barrier. It was now 6:00 p.m. and we started simul-climbing again up the throat of the main upper face, heading for upper summit ridge of the Harvard and West Face Couloir routes.
The weather deteriorated, and it was snowing and sloughing spindrift everywhere around us. We climbed until 11:00 p.m. and finally turned around when we could no longer see more than 30 feet ahead. We had intersected the Harvard Route finish, maybe 500 feet below the summit, but opted to start rappelling in light of conditions. As we descended our route, the snow became more intense. We lost two hours dealing with a hung rappel in the coldest and darkest part of the night, and stripped 40 feet of sheath off of our second rope with our Ropeman while trying to pull the rope.
Twenty-seven hours after we left the bivy, we lay down and slept for five hours. I was so tired, I fell asleep while devouring my food and awoke like a frozen Mastodon with unchewed jerky still in my mouth. After our short respite, we rapped off the lower Harvard Route and a few hours later enjoyed a gracious reception from our base camp comrades.
The Imperfect Apparition seemed an appropriate name for our route, in light of the nearby Phantom Wall, the phantom summit, and the proper alpine etiquette—tell the truth.
Jack Tackle, AAC
American Alpine Journal 2006
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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 21, 2016 - 07:45pm PT
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Mt. Huntington, West face, Scorched Granite. 2014 (Major variation to Colton-Leach route).
By Will Mayo
The shaded corner of grey granite in the center of the Mt. Huntington’s west face rose above me toward the cobalt sky. Stemming my frontpoints against the walls of the dihedral, I could hear my breath in the stillness of the high-pressure air. My tools were stuffed in a hand-sized crack choked with rotten ice: too insubstantial for good tool placements, yet tenacious enough to coat the guts of the crack, prohibiting rock protection. I looked down at my last pieces of gear, well below me now, just above the belay. As I turned my head upward, I heard Josh Wharton shouting encouragement: “Dream line!”
This climb had originated months before, in Vail’s dank limestone amphitheater, when I ran into Mark Westman. “So, are there any plums left in the Ruth?” I asked. Mark’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, sure, but do you remember that smear on the west face of Mt. Huntington? It’s up and left of the Colton-Leach. It forms every year. I’ll send you a photo.” A couple of weeks later I stared at Mark’s photo on my computer, astonished that the striking line of ice had never been climbed. It was a compelling swath of untouched terrain between Polarchrome and the Colton-Leach, leading to the French Ridge. Mark and my other partners were busy. In the end, Josh Wharton would join me. A weather window appeared the second week in May, and we quickly packed our bags and flew ourselves to Alaska in my small plane.
Fleeting memories of all that had led to my current position, hanging beneath the crux of our new route, flashed through my mind. My crampon skated, casting sparks against the rock and emitting the unmistakable odor of scorched granite. I placed a shallow micro-cam and a solid RP and liebacked with my tools up the crack beneath a cruxy, overhanging bulge. A few meters higher, I glanced at a shallow shelf; I prayed it held a crack. Once hooking the shelf, I stuffed a solid cam into the precious, dry, horizontal crack. I looked down between my legs and screamed in euphoric rage. I knew at that moment the route was going down.
We finished up the final pitches of steep ice, gained a horizontal ledge, traversed leftward into the base of a couloir, and then continued up moderate mixed terrain to the French Ridge. These upper snow slopes have been known to stymie even the most seasoned alpinists with bottomless depth hoar. For us the French Ridge was in ideal shape with styrofoam-like névé and patches of alpine ice for solid screws. We reached the summit at 5:30 p.m., basking in the warm evening sun. The descent along the upper Harvard Route was straightforward and uneventful, and we finished rappelling the west face couloir as the late-evening shadow engulfed us. We continued down snow slopes and across the bergshrund, and walked back into camp at 11:30 p.m., merely 13 and a half hours after leaving.
As Josh likes to say, so much of alpine climbing is about luck, so half the battle is simply showing up. Sometimes, you just get lucky: Scorched Granite (4,200', M7 AI6).
American Alpine Journal 2015
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Todd Eastman
climber
Bellingham, WA
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Sep 21, 2016 - 07:46pm PT
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Paging Dave Hough...
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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 22, 2016 - 07:46pm PT
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Quirk/Nettle: John Frieh and Jason Stucky, 2011. (2nd winter ascent of Huntington)
Special thanks to John Frieh
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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 23, 2016 - 05:14pm PT
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Mt Huntington - French (NW) Ridge (FWA) 2014: John Frieh, Jason Stuckey and Dave Farra.
Thanks to John Frieh
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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 23, 2016 - 05:21pm PT
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Mt Huntington - French (NW) Ridge (FWA) 2014: John Frieh, Jason Stuckey and Brad Farra, Cont...
Thanks to Brad Farra
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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 25, 2016 - 03:19am PT
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Mt Huntington - French (NW) Ridge (FWA) 2014: John Frieh, Jason Stuckey and Brad Farra, Cont...
Thanks to Brad Farra
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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Sep 26, 2016 - 03:18am PT
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Mt Huntington - French (NW) Ridge (FWA) 2014: John Frieh, Jason Stuckey and Brad Farra, Cont...
Thanks to Brad Farra
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the_dude
Mountain climber
anchorage, alaska
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Apr 29, 2017 - 10:43pm PT
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With tremendous fortune, Jess Roskelley and I made the first ascent of the Gauntlet Ridge (the Complete South Ridge) of Mount Huntington (12,240’) from April 19-23. We made the complicated and dangerous approach from the East Fork of the Tokositna Glacier on April 18, navigating steep snow ramps under active seracs and above tangled icefalls. We continued the approach on April 19 through a labyrinthine crevasse field in a claustrophobic basin known as Death Valley, finally reaching the south face of Peak 9460 in the late morning.
From the 5,700 level at the base of the face, we climbed for a full day in sweltering conditions until we located an adequate bivouac platform late in the evening. The next day we fully committed ourselves to the route by rappelling north off of the summit of P. 9460 into a gun sight notch of fractured and overhanging black rock.
Retreating backward or down the 4,000’ west face of the South Ridge to the treacherous Death Valley was considered to be so dangerous with the odds stacked against survival that summiting Huntington (nearly two miles away) was the only way of retreat.
For the next three days we climbed over each of the remaining three towers (P. 9800, P. 10100 and Idiot Peak (P. 10700)). The cruxes were many, but Jess and I climbed with an inexorable fervor that neither of us is likely to experience again.
The very nature of the serrated ridge required dozens of rappels only to immediately climb to a similar elevation and then down climb and traverse for menial lateral gain. Tension traverses, difficult mixed terrain while simul-climbing and dangerous snow conditions with minimal protection and overhanging cornices were the daily standard.
On the morning of the fourth day as we rappelled over the Salvador Dali-like summit cornices of Idiot Peak, we were certain for the first time that we were going to not only summit Mount Huntington, but we were also going to survive. The perfect weather we had enjoyed for the last five days broke down as we weaved our way up previously untraveled terrain to the ice crowned summit of Mount Huntington.
The whole event had taxed Jess and me to an extent that only became apparent as we stumbled across the lonesome summit in an enveloping gale. Our eyes were welded shut by the snowy wind and our extremities went numb. With no visibility or energy to descend the mountain, we spent the next 36 hours huddled in our tiny tent and wet sleeping bags on the top of Mount Huntington.
We cautiously estimate that we climbed approximately 9,000 feet while ascending the South Ridge. From the vantage point of the innumerable challenges and the level of commitment of such a complex line, it is easy to see why no one ever climbed it before us. But when the striking profile of that erratic ridge cleaving up and down against an azure Alaskan sky is present in our vision, we cannot believe it took someone so long to try.
Completing the first ascent of Mount Huntington’s biggest line will forever remain a milestone achievement in our lives. The whole time we felt as if we were running a gauntlet; being beaten down only to rise again and again to face the next unknown barrier on the mountain and in our minds.
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Avery
climber
New Zealand
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Topic Author's Reply - Apr 29, 2017 - 11:53pm PT
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Outstanding Dude!
Congratulations to you both.
Thanks for posting. I had no knowledge of your climb or success.
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Anguish
Mountain climber
Jackson Hole Wyo.
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Incredible - like climbing five mountains.
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feralfae
Boulder climber
in the midst of a metaphysical mystery
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Beautiful climb, Dude, thank you for posting and congratulations. Exceptional effort and exceptional route.
feralfae
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