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Where-is-jared.com
Where is Jared?
Writing about my favorite rocks
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As you dive into any hobby, occupation, or interest, there becomes a stronger and stronger need to get specific when talking to others in the same space. Once a topic you thought was quite simple opens up into a rabbit hole of niches and varietals, requiring ever more specific terminology, acronyms, and jargon.
It serves a great utility for the "in-crowd", allowing them to understand one another with clarity and speed, and hide lengthy explanations or nuances behind simple phrases and words. Yet, it immediately puts up a wall between them and those outside of their space.
As I have written more, and had more eyes on the words I have chosen to use in these trip reports and stories, I have gotten many similar questions repeated from lots of different readers. The large majority of these questions stemmed from a misunderstanding of a word used in an unfamiliar way or one that was not a part of their vocabulary at all! This piece aims to begin to peel back some of the onion layers that make up "mountain sports" by first unfurling a map of what that phrase even includes.
For the purposes of brevity, for now, I will be leaving out any sports that don't primarily take place with the use of your foot to the ground. Sorry, mountain-biking, base jumping, and skiing... but there are too many nested rabbit holes for a single piece.
"Mountain sports" simply means any sport that takes place in the mountains. To quote Wikipedia: "[Mountain sport] is one of several types of sport that take place in hilly or mountainous terrain."
A decent take at a generalized term for those of us who choose to recreate where the ground gets a bit steeper. However, mountains are big, they go through significant weather changes during the course of the year, and exist in countless biomes and variations. To make it even more complicated, most "mountain athletes" participate in a wide variety of these sports to cover for those yearly weather changes and the intensities of each activity. So when talking about these activities it does one no good to simply say "Hey, want to go mountain sport with me this weekend?" you must get more specific! How about... "Hey, want to go climb in the mountains with me this weekend?" we're getting somewhere, but even with knowledge of the specific destination, multiple routes might exist, taking vastly different paths and skills to succeed! Would this trip require special gear? Would it require camping? A whole can of worms is opened!
Something you might be more likely to hear is:
"Hey, I've been looking at peak X, the west face is a 5.9 climb, but east ridge looks like a pretty chill scramble. It's a big approach, 30 miles round trip, but if we do the scramble I think we could fast-pack it.
There's a ton of information baked into a question like this that, to an "expert", would be extremely helpful in making a decision, but for an outsider, it might need some follow-up. So, in the interest of pulling back the veil a bit, let's start with the most high-level topic: What "sports" make up the plural in "mountain sports"?
In the continued interest in brevity, I have compiled a dozen different variations of mountain sports and plotted them all on a six-dimensional graph to help you understand what people mean when they use those terms (and more specifically what I mean when I write them). These are not meant to be deep-dives or comprehensive representations of those sports (which each have their own niches to dive deeper into), but to give a thesaurus to curious outsiders and a fun thing to argue about for pedantic online commenters!
First, lets go over this graph. To try and pry apart the differences between these sports I came up with six different "focuses" we can plot for these activities.
For each "focus" I will plot a score of 0-4 on the graph as defined below, a 0 meaning "this activity never focuses on this" and a 4 meaning "this activity always focuses on this" with a few steps in between for ambiguity.
Disclaimer! This does not mean these activities are strict concepts, many people will have different opinions or have done something against one of these graphs. That's fine... this is merely a guide to help you understand what many people mean when they use one of these words.
Many of these activities build on top of one another, and as such, we must start at the "bottom" with the more fundamental pieces to be able to properly understand the more complex and involved ones.
Hiking is perhaps the most fundamental "mountain sport" and definitely the one most people are already acquainted with. (What a good place to start to help us understand the graph). To quote Wikipedia again: "A hike is a long, vigorous walk, usually on trails or footpaths in the countryside."
So, anytime we are walking on a trail outside of human dominated places that counts as a hike!
However, the term is generic enough that often just hearing "I'm going hiking" isn't quite enough to deduce exactly what they will be doing, and the graph reflects that. While someone rarely means that they will be camping, moving very fast, doing something requiring specialized skills or technical gear... we can't count any of them out completely!
Hiking can and does take place on any existing trail. It may be meandering or specifically pointing to a peak. It may be through a well maintained park or through wilderness areas. Hiking is accessible to all no matter the fitness level or intention and, as such, gets a wide usage in the mountain lexicon.
Trail running is a small step away from hiking in many regards – it requires essentially no new skills – just a shift of mindset. To focus on speed over leisure, and a slightly higher bar for required cardiovascular endurance. The graph shows this, taking a few points away here and there and placing all of them into "speed".
Typically, a trail runner doesn't have any intention to camp or carry around gear other than their trail runners (shoes) and a vest, and they tend to prefer rolling trails to rocky ridge lines or steep summit pushes. While the amount of backcountry travel is most of the time quite similar to hiking, the ability to do more miles in the same amount of time often pushes trail runners into this arena more than your average hiker, but only by a bit.
So, when someone talks about trail running you can always tell their goal will be pace, no matter where they are going, they will be thinking about doing it efficiently and quickly.
Climbing is the next building block as it is the opposite end of the spectrum from hiking in many regards, but still only consists of fundamental movements. We can use the chart to see at a glance how it differs from hiking. When people talk about "climbing" they are specifically calling out the need for both technical skill and gear in a way that "hiking" does not immediately invoke.
The term climbing is still a very general one though and is probably the most misleading of the bunch. Some people might use the term "climb" to simply mean "ascend", or they might use it in place of one of a deluge of disciplines like rock climbing, ice climbing, mixed climbing (both rock and ice). Even within these disciplines the terms can be fragmented further: Are you climbing a boulder? A single pitch? Many pitches in a row? Are you soloing? No matter the answer to one of these, the term climbing can be used.
A "pitch" is a term used to denote one effort in rope climbing, where the "lead" climber goes ahead before stopping and belaying their follower up. Usually pitches are 20 - 35 meters (about half the length of a normal rope) but can be smaller or longer depending on the wall. A pitch usually ends on a natural feature like a ledge or the top of a wall and has bolts or other natural features to anchor yourself to.
With all of these caveats aside, if you are hearing this term from someone deep in the pits of their own personal mountain sport rabbit hole, they are likely to use it in the way the graph describes. To "climb" a mountain means to tackle it in a way that is not just walking up, but via some more technical route.
Scrambling is the last core activity and the one that non-mountain people are often the least acquainted with. To a layman it seems the same as climbing, and one might even mistake it with "free soloing".
Scrambling is the practice of "climbing" (why this is so confusing) over easy terrain where you are still more reliant on your feet than your hands, typically only using them to stabilize you or surmount a move or two. It almost never requires technical gear like ropes, bolts, or traditional gear, as the difficultly is considered to be to easy enough not to warrant their weight and slowness.
While the actual technical ability is lower than what most mean when they say climbing the need for technical skill is still always a focus when mentioning scrambling. Most of the time scrambling takes place in the backcountry and off trail, so you must be able to follow a map and the terrain of your own accord. Scrambling is often associated with peaks or ridge lines as that is the primary area where the terrain exists. Many "technical" peaks that do no have a maintained or direct trail to them will require some level of scrambling, which leans this term towards a focus on summiting.
As a slightly deeper dive into the way us mountain people will distinguish between these core activities, you may hear the terms 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th "class".
These are the loose categorizations that we use to differentiate when something goes from hiking (1st and 2nd class), to scrambling (3rd and 4th class), to climbing (5th class). These buckets are the original designation of the "Yosemite Decimal System" and serve to judge how difficult the terrain will be that you will encounter.
1st class: A maintained hiking trail with no obstacles.
2nd class: A rough hiking trail, often with rocks or large steps that may require the use of your hands for balance in some places.
3rd class: Typically no longer a trail, but instead a loose path of rocks or boulders that can be walked on and will require the use of hands for balance and scrambling. May involve some exposure (steep drops where a fall would be severe).
4th class: Scrambling terrain where hands are used often including some moves that may involve pulling with your upper body. Often with exposure.
5th class: Vertical or near vertical terrain that involves climbing including the prolonged use of your upper body to ascend. Almost always including exposure. Is further broken into a decimal system, 5.0 - 5.15, to denote physical difficulty.
These next activities are still fairly common, so you've probably heard of them, but maybe haven't always understood how they differ from the ones already covered. The lines start to get more and more blurry as you get more specific, and overlaps become more apparent. Each of these could probably fit into one of the "core" activities, but categorizing them further helps take some of those open questions away.
Backpacking is hiking's dirtbag cousin, it shares almost every attribute with a sharp and distinct focus on camping. In fact you can't backpack without camping, usually with a large pack carrying everything you need for a trip. Backpacking has a innate relationship to longer trips, often spanning 2 or more nights, and it's extreme version "through hiking" takes this to the weeks and months range.
For these reasons backpacking often takes place in the backcountry, but with a lower focus on summiting than hiking might have. Instead backpackers tend to spend time on trails that wind between peaks, crossing over mountain passes and valleys to get from point to point. Rarely does a backpacker intend that they are going to do much technical activity, in the cases where you would take backpacking gear to go far into the backcountry to do a technical activity you would use the terms that best describes that instead.
The official definition of "mountaineering" is quite general, to quote our friend Wikipedia one more time: "[Mountaineering] is a set of outdoor activities that involves ascending mountains."
By that phrasing it might even be considered the umbrella term for anything that takes you to the peak of a mountain! However when someone is referencing mountaineering they are typically being more specific and targeting the activity of tackling "large" peaks that involve more than just travel on a well defined trail. Often this includes technical skill or gear like glacier crossing, scrambling, steep snow, ice climbing, and more. Not all mountaineering feats are for hardened high-skill athletes, many objectives are just long hikes maybe over snow and maybe ascending above altitudes that start to make travel more strenuous.
High altitude mountaineering is the next step up, but involves all of the same tools, just done in places where the air is very thin, usually at least 5000 meters or more. This is where the Himalayas and tallest peaks in the world are usually introduced and use this term to differentiate themselves.
Alpine climbing is plain old climbing's cooler older brother (my bias may be showing). While someone who is "climbing" might mean tackling a roadside boulder or a sport (bolted) crag, alpine climbing always means tackling a larger objective in the backcountry while still focusing on the technical movement of climbing.
For these reasons alpine climbing is more likely to involve camping or multi-day exposure and more often than not is focused on summiting at least one peak. This kind of climbing may involve cross-discipline skill sets including rock climbing, glacier skills, ice climbing, route finding, anything that you might run across while climbing severe terrain well into the backcountry.
These activities are either newly blossoming or are divisive even within their respective communities. So, when you come across them you might find slightly more complicated definitions or ambiguities, but I'll do my best to introduce you to these interesting and varied sports!
Mountain running (also known as "sky running", “adventure running”, or "ridge running") is a fork off of trail running that aims to include more technical backcountry terrain. Many trail runners may not even make this distinction today, and will call both their mild hill runs and fast and light ridge scrambles "trail runs", but the difference is noticeable.
Both trail and mountain running are distinctly focused on speed, tackling their chosen terrain as efficiently as possible using only their own body. The difference only arrives in the choice of terrain, mountain running takes place in arenas that combine 1st through 4th class trails, stringing on-trail and off-trail travel together, without bringing technical gear like ropes.
The lines begin to blur here between "mountaineering" and "trail running" as athletes get stronger and shared knowledge of backcountry areas pushes people to do more with less. I expect to see these terms thrown around more as the amount of new entrants to trail running rises and people want to distinguish themselves.
Similar to mountain running, fast-packing takes the new found speed and endurance of modern athletes and combines it with cutting edge light weight gear to bring backpacking into the fast paced mix.
Fast-packing focuses on speed while on multi-day excursions, often forgoing luxuries that backpackers (even ultralight backpackers) enjoy to cut their weight down dramatically. This enables them to run with their pack on, using harness style bags rather than traditional frame bags. In some very civilized places (Canada, Europe, New Zealand, etc) the lack of luxuries can be offset by utilizing hut networks, where food and shelter are taken care of and the fast-packer only needs to carry their clothes and weather gear. In America however, fast-packing is often more rugged, involving bivys (short for "bivouacs") where you make an improvised camp high on a mountain or ridge, typically without a tent. These pushes tend to only use sleep as a necessity to make it through long miles or difficult terrain that cannot be tackled in a single day.
Fast-packing is also often used in conjunction with "high routes" where one travels through rugged technical terrain (typically without 5th class climbing), staying up in the mountains and on ridge lines, rather than descending through valleys like one might while backpacking. These are also called "traverses", or when multiple peaks are reached in the course of a high route, "link ups". This niche overlaps with fast-packing due to the need to stay light to be able to scramble without a cumbersome heavy pack and tend to focus on keeping exposure to the elements to a little time as possible and doing long pushes over a few days.
Peak bagging is a funny little niche forked off of hiking, where one has a strict focus on summiting as many peaks as possible. To a peakbagger, a hike that does not end in a summit is a bit of a waste. This was made popular in the internet age with sites like https://peakbagger.com/ or http://mountainproject.com/ where one can track their ascents against others in their community, though by no means is a new phenomenon (many could call all early mountaineers and guidebook authors peakbaggers).
In many ways this is not a sport of its own, but instead a mindset one might have while entering into one of the other sports highlighted here. This is why the graph remains well balanced across all of the focuses, many methods may be required especially when ticking off "harder" peaks which fall into the realm of mountaineering. However, many self-proclaimed peakbaggers would also say they are just hikers.
Big wall climbing is an intense off shoot of climbing that pulls in all of the aspects of backpacking, but made vertical. The most famous example of this is Yosemite's El Capitan, a single wall requiring 31 pitches of climbing to ascend. Most mortals can't achieve that in a single day (A "N.I.A.D", or "Nose in a day", is a great achievement for any climber) and must camp at some point along the wall.
Climbers will ascend the wall using their preferred climbing technique and haul up gear for multiple days using elaborate rope systems involving pulleys, static ropes, and massive tough haul bags. Whenever they are finished climbing for the day they will set up camp, either on ledges or suspended by extra specialized gear like portaledges (the fancy hanging tents you saw in "Dawn Wall") to ensure that they can safely and comfortably sleep.
These techniques are required when climbing huge (big) walls, especially when they have not been climbed before and exploration has to happen during the climbing.
There is a whole world out there in each of these "sports" I've described and many more I have not mentioned. Rabbit holes, disagreements, and new space to adventure in await on each of them. So, when you are talking to someone and you don't know exactly what they mean, don't be afraid to ask. People who are super deep into something tend to love talking about their passion and want to get others into it (those who don't are assholes!).
What are some sports or terms you have heard that you didn't understand? What are somethings I left out or left ambiguous? Let me know and I'll keep this series updated and we can build up a whole thesaurus of terms and graphics to explain the wild world of "mountain sports".
When you are creating a route (whether driving, or biking, or hiking, or running, or whatever) there are really only three configurations you can end up with: a point-to-point (thru), an out-and-back, or a loop. Out-and-back is the most efficient, getting you to a point - typically via the most straightforward path, and returning you to your starting location. This is what most of our trips look like, when you go to the grocery store, walk to work, hike to a mountain top, etc, we are just trying to get where we are going and come home. A point-to-point too can be efficient, but ends is up feeling rather impractical most of the time, dropping you far away from where you began. Its incomplete, a voyage without a return, or one reliant on a hitchhike being garnered back to your point of origin. Really a point-to-point is just a part of the last option, a loop. To embark on a loop intentionally is to be extraneous, to begin and end in the same point without an obvious target or destination. You can use loops to link multiple points together, but there will always be an aimlessness to wandering around, intentionally taking a longer path than is required.
There is a whimsey to this that itches at the simple, soft parts of my brain. For me it feels innate, some distinct and physical aesthetic quality, that becomes more and more pleasing the more "true" the loop is. To retread as little of the same ground is a sincere goal that bewitches me every time I look at a map. The joy of it is hard to describe, but experience after experience the loop has provided me with something that an out-and-back (or even the similar non-retreading point-to-point) can never quite replicate.
As I have thought more about why this might be, why I have such an inclination and fascination toward this arbitrary choice, breaking down trip after trip, I find myself left with a very simple (and personal) definition of "adventure".
To me an adventure is time spent finding your way, embarking into the "unknown", always seeing new sights, and never completely certain what you will find around the next corner. I've loved this feeling of adventure since I was a kid, it's one of the things that drew me to the outdoors was being able to have these kind of experiences out in the world. However, growing up I found myself frustrated or even bored with the way many of my excursions turned out, always dreading the "back" part of the "out-and-back" that all of the hikes I went on seemed to be.
At first I thought I just hated descending, but really it was the deeper feeling that the trip was transactional in some way that didn't feel right to me. It seemed like we weren't on the trail for the experience of being in the world, but instead to get to the end point, following the trail laid out in front of us, trading in effort for a peak or a view. It took me a long time to make this introspection, to realize I wasn't connecting with the place or the movement in a way that felt meaningful to me. Instead I had found my way to other pursuits that gave me that sense of connection, namely rock climbing. Climbing demands engagement with the wall in front of you, insisting that you learn and interface with the route to be able to make your way through it, the movement is the purpose of being there rather than a focus on one specific end point or goal. I always left feeling changed, that I had learned something about myself and the place after the experience. So when I stumbled into my first big loop and felt the same joy wash over me, I knew I had to dig deeper.
I know this sentiment isn't universal, after all how could it be when out-and-backs are so ubiquitous that they fill the endless halls of internet and guidebook trail recommendations? Perhaps for some there isn't the same longing for that same adventurous feeling I seek, instead replaced by a sense of achievement or just diverting them to different hobbies as I had. Perhaps some can find a deeper connection in ways that I just can't on an out-and-back. I think the truth is probably a combination of both and the fact that devising and traveling in a loop just takes a bunch of extra work! It's tough to find loops out in the world. Its akin to putting together a jigsaw puzzle, all of the pieces are there, but getting them together to find the greater picture takes patience and care. Luckily for those of us who do enjoy a good puzzle, they are plentiful, and as they increase in difficulty they also increase in quality.
So, for those of you who want to join me in the absurd quest to create "true" loops and revel in the aesthetics in our little walks in nature (and for those of you who don't I hope I have at least piqued your interest) here is a bit about my own process for planning out these loops, some of my favorite examples to highlight what's possible, and a recent quick trip report on a new favorite loop!
To dive into the topic, I'll start by highlighting the general categorization I bucket routes into, to show that there are really loops for everyone! You have probably done a loop before, but an unfortunate fact is that geography doesn't often align with looped trails. This contributes to their scarcity which keeps most people from enjoying their wonders especially when hiking or running. The world imposes obstacles in the form of mountains, rivers, and park boundaries that can force us "loop-walkers" away from the paths of least resistance and into more difficult terrain. Luckily this isn't always the case, sometimes the dynamic is flipped and the world has loops laid out for us in the wild, ready to tackle.
These are the first, most common, and "easiest" category of loops – natural loops.
A natural loop is one that follows some obvious existing loop in the landscape. This could be a valley meadow, a lake, or a lone freestanding mountain, anywhere the natural splendor is already encompassed by a semi-flat area ready to be traversed. You may also find a less "natural" version tracing the border of most human-marked areas like parks (of any size) or even your entire neighborhood. Tracing some "longest-path" around them, winding at their edges. Either way this is the type of loop most people are familiar with because they are the easiest to discover and maintain! Some of my most common Seattle loops fall into this category, including the Discovery Park Loop and the Green Lake Loop – two named loop trails right in the city.
Green Lake holds three loops, all of them tracing around the lakes wonderfully round edges. Closest to the water is the named trail, 2.8 miles of paved path accessible to walkers, runners, strollers, rollerblades, and bikes (everyone!). The upper two loops, the protected bike lane separating the park from the road, and the gravel track that snakes along beside it, enclose the park and stay much less busy than the inner loop.
Another Seattle classic, Discovery Park's lovely trail system includes a named "Loop Trail" which traces around the edge of the "upper" park, following 2.8 miles of rolling dirt path winding through thick PNW forest and past incredible views of the sound and the Olympics beyond. You can add on the "lighthouse" extension to the loop and drop down to the rocky beachfront to get even more gain (climbing back up the stairs is brutal!)
These city trails I often end up "lollipop-ing" from my house or one of the entrances to the parks which takes away a bit of the raw aesthetic on the map, but really makes up for it by not having to drive anywhere.
When we don't quite get a natural or maintained loop, we have to look between the lines, and piece them together from other non-looped existing trails. This works especially well in dense networks where paths criss-cross and overlap. In the city the street grids supply this easily, all it takes to make a loop is making four left or right turns spaced in your preferred manner. On trails we can find these kind of networks in many well maintained parks and public lands, places where loops lie dormant, they may not be labeled for us or available on our favorite trail-recommendation engine, but the tools are all there at our disposal.
These are the second kind of loops – combination loops.
Combo loops take existing trails, often other thru or out-and-back trails that overlap at some point, and splice them into loops. In some places this can be really obvious to create, many parks with lowland areas, multiple points of interest, or with multiple entrances will have trails going all over the place. One of my favorite examples of this is Cougar Mountain in Issaquah.
Just look at that canvas! Because there are half a dozen trailheads surrounding the park, the trails spider out from every edge. We can see them join and cross in dozens of places where avid puzzle-solvers can make turn after turn to complete any number of loops. In this park I've created 6, 8, and 10 mile trails on this network to fulfill specific running distances I needed to complete that week.
If you want to make your own loop in a park like this, simply pick one of the trail heads and then track left or right, following the trails in that direction bringing it slowly around until you hit the mileage/gain you were looking for. Most mapping tools today have snap-to-trail functions and live estimates that make this a breeze (I have used Gaia for a long time - all of the screenshots are from there - but CalTopo, Goat Maps, and OnX are all pretty good tools) which is great since you will have to play around, creating a couple of options to really dial in what you are looking for.
I've made a couple of big loops this way and one of my favorites is the "Teneriffe to Si Loop" in North Bend. Combining the "Kamikaze" Trail up Mt. Teneriffe (A marginally maintained trail going straight up the mountain) and then descending the main trail until you reach the shoulder between the two peaks where an alternate trail up the backside of Mt. Si forks off. Follow this fork up to the Haystack, do a little scramble, and then descend the Mt. Si trail back to the parking lot. Together they make an 11.5 mi loop with a bit over 5000 ft of gain, thats a big trail for the foothills of the cascades! It does require 3/4 mi of road running between the two trailheads, but this serves as a great warmup or warmdown for the day.
While combo trails are great as ways to extend existing trails or pick off multiple points all in one go, they can only get you so far, ultimately hitting gaps and blank spaces if you limit yourself to existing trails. Even when there are existing trails, you can often be led down convoluted paths requiring you to ascend and descent passes that are only slightly separated or to run miles on dusty forest roads.
If you are like me (which, if you got this far, you're probably at least a little bit like me) you are looking at the peaks and ridges just beyond the trails wondering why you can't go there. "If I could just descend the other side of this [peak/ridge/hill] I would be able to get to X" or "That ridgeline looks like it goes if that drop off isn't too bad" are thoughts that have crossed my mind far too many times while I'm out.
This is where the third category of loop comes in - adventure loops.
An adventure loop leaves existing trails behind for at least part of the route. Traversing open backcountry terrain by scrambling ridge lines, bushwhacking through wild country, or crossing snowfields/glaciated terrain. Making use of these features to access peaks or areas inaccessible from marked and maintained trails. Sometimes there will be "climbers trails" in these places, cairns or other vague markers left from other travelers. Sometimes there will be no signs at all.
This style of loop is where I have to warn any would-be copy cat that going off trail can be irresponsible and dangerous. You need to be confident in moving through the backcountry and half all of your exit strategies dialed in. Maps are only so accurate, reports can become outdated, and someone else's idea of risk can be way different than your own. I have been thwarted on routes by thick bushwhacking, loose scree fields, snow conditions, and required climbing moves. Each of which I was considering as part of my planning and either had backup plans or ways to bail. With that warning out of the way (heed it!) creating a route of your own that feels novel and takes you through seemingly untouched places is electrifying when successful. For each high point I have had completing one of these though, I have been through multiple failed attempts and hours of planning. It's part of the process and adds to the adventure, so let's step in to what these look like.
I wrote here about one of my first successful big adventure loops in late 2024, the "Mowich Ridgeline Traverse" where I scrambled between set of connected peaks on the Carbon Glacier side of Mt. Rainier. In preparing for this loop I found numerous reports for the individual peaks and even some for specific ridge lines, but nothing for the entire loop. This meant creating multiple GPS maps with alternative routes and having to route-find on the day. At any point if I was met with an obstacle that felt too dangerous I was ready to bail, I had already bailed on multiple similar trips earlier that fall when the trails got worse than they had appeared in my planning. It took all of those failed experiences to hone in my puzzle skills and bring this one to a close.
Last month I got to complete the Ingalls to Fortune Traverse, a loop I had roughly drawn on my map for months prior. Ingalls Lake is a classic fall larch hike, one that I had been on early into my tenure in Washington. Above the lake lies craggy peaks covered in sloping yellow and red slabs. I remember looking up at them and thinking it would be an incredible playground for scrambling. So when I started my journey making adventure loops, I scrolled over to this spot and started putting down frantic lines anywhere that seemed roughly passable. Luckily, this loop is not unknown, and reports of versions of it exist in multitudes online with pretty good descriptions and even gpx tracks.
So, I met up with a couple of friends at the Esmeralda Trailhead one morning in July, the clouds were high and wispy keeping temps enjoyable but rain at bay. We each had a light pack, ready to move as quick as we could over the varying terrain we would hit on the route. From the lot we ascended the well maintained trail up to Ingalls Pass where we could see our objective finally looming ahead of us, a long undulating and rocky ridge surrounding the valley on the west side. We took the high route to Ingalls Lake, stopping briefly to filter some water and admire the mountain goats that were grazing nearby.
From the lake the trail ended, we picked our way up through low angle slabs and scree washes to the craggy col between Ingalls and South Ingalls. We then traversed around the sharp rock fin that sits at the top of the col, passed underneath the south face climbing route (seeing two parties roped up enjoying the day as we were), and started finding our way up the "scramble" route around to the north side of Ingalls.
It immediately forced us onto some 3rd/4th class with moderate exposure, navigating between a chossy gully and some slick slabs up to an exposed step around. We were already feeling hesitant about the quality of the rock, but given we were doing to have to downclimb this section no matter what we continued on to see if it improved... just beyond that point it got worse. The route continued up a small gully like climb absolutely filled with kitty litter scree, and beneath it was a long fall down to the valley below. Not wanting to risk our lives to little rocks we decided that was our limit and turned around to immediately have to downclimb the prior section.
After managing the downclimb, very slowly and carefully, we were excited to tackle the route up to South Ingalls which already looked much more straightforward and with higher quality rock. The ridge butted straight into a large blocky rock wall, with a very slight trail traversing underneath it to a lower angle section to our right, but the climbing looked great up this direction, so we opted for some 4th class moves on good rock to mount the ridgeline from there. This let our route stay closer to the high point of the ridge which is another aesthetic quality that I look for on a route, both on the day in the movement it provides and on the map afterward. The climbing backed off after the first section and we were able to hike up the rest of the way to the south peak.
The peak offered incredible views of Stuart and the cascades to the north, as well as a great view of our route for the rest of the day. From here the ridge got rockier, and we hopped directly off the summit heading south through a narrow break in the rock. We stayed high and hopped across the rocks, swapping between 2nd-4th class movement. The exposure remained relatively minimal and we got a great flow going moving quickly through the terrain.
Eventually the choice to stay high put us on one section of semi-spicy downclimbing that could have been avoided by traversing lower around the rocks, but ultimately ended up being very enjoyable. From here we could see Fortune directly ahead of us and we hiked up to the summit to enjoy our last high point.
We saw a loose trail leading off of Fortune Peak back down toward Fortune Creek Pass, but it was indirect and the terrain was all open so we opted to surf down the scree on the west side of the peak until we met back up with the main trail leading down to the creek. We quickly dumped all of the pebbles out of our shoes and started an enjoyable run back below tree line and through Esmerelda Basin. We ended up finishing the outing in 5 hours and 45 minutes, covering 10.3 miles and 4100 ft of gain.
It ended up being everything I look for in a successful adventure loop. Fantastic views around every corner, flowy and fun movement over multiple types of terrain, and plentiful off-route travel (without the need for any bushwhacking) giving us endless options and solidifying the feeling of freedom that I only find on routes like these. Not a single part of the day was less than incredible, the true magic of loops come together. Classics like these are everywhere when you know the right people or how to look at a map with a bit of imagination, all it takes is a little dedication to a silly aesthetic ideal and the cumulative skills to tackle the terrain.
I hope these ideas have reached out to you and seeing trips like these inspires both my existing loop enthusiasts and some out-and-back purists to try this kind of adventure out once in awhile as a mindful practice. To go out into the world with a slightly more aimless attitude, less interested in specific destinations and more in the movement and journey you find while you are out. It certainly isn't the only valid way to enjoy the outdoors, and I hope I don't give anyone that impression (I'm finishing writing this as I pack for an out-and-back peakbagging mission) but it is one of my favorites.
Let me know what your favorite kind of adventures are, loop or otherwise, and I'll see you out there.
2.8.2025 20:08The Magic of LoopsCheck out a full length video on the ascent/descent here!
I have fallen (somewhat accidentally) into an annual tradition of finishing my ski season on Mt. Adams. For the past three years I have made the five hour pilgrimage from Seattle, down to the Oregon border, along the Columbia River, and back up the long fire road into the Gifford Pinchot National Forest where the volcano stands massive over the Trout Lake Valley.
Mt. Adams (or "Pahto") stands at 12,281 ft tall, with an impressive 8,116 ft prominence, making it the second tallest mountain in Washington. There are a handful of named ski descents on the mountain, with the most iconic being the Southwest Chutes, a set of steep snow bands dropping off from Pikers Peak and providing over 3,000 ft of continuous 35° skiing. Beyond the jaw dropping stats and beauty of the line, it also holds snow well through the early summer (the SW aspect making for particularly good "corn" harvesting) and does not require crossing any real glaciated terrain or hazards like many comparable ski lines on other PNW volcanos.
The South Climb, which is by far the most popular route up the mountain due to easy road access and its direct nature, takes you past a few key features which should be highlighted to familiarize you with the route:
If you don't want my personal history with the line and just the beta, feel free to skip ahead to "So, What Do I Need To Know?"
I was introduced to Mt. Adams by a friend, Alex, during my first real year of ski touring. Sometime in the early spring of 2023 he floated the idea of skiing the SW chutes when the road to the south climb trailhead finally melted out. When I found out that wouldn't be until late May or early June my newly minted PWN brain short circuited. The idea that skiing was possible in months I had previously associated only with good hiking and rock climbing weather was a hard one to grasp.
A quick bit of research on the route and I found myself staring down the barrel of a 5,000 ft climb to reach the top of the chutes and a 7,000 ft climb if we wanted to summit. At this point I'd only been in Washington for two "seasons" and I was early in my progression from "moderate-hiker-fit" to "mountaineer-fit". That much gain seemed lightyears beyond what I felt I was capable of. My buddy had already been to the summit once and really only wanted to tag the chutes so we settled on the plan to just make it to Piker's to ski down, only considering the summit if I felt up for it on the day. Feeling slightly better, but still nervous about the prospect of having to keep up with him on that big of a day, I began rigorously training for the uphill.
I'm certainly no expert on training, and was even less so at this point. I started by joining my wife running – slowly upping my running mileage in the city, getting up to maybe 10 or 12 miles a week – as well as spending at least one day a week in Snoqualmie, touring laps up Hyak Face.
Hyak, also known as Summit East, is (in my opinion) a near perfect training ground for ski touring. A short drive from the city, a 1,000 ft rise (making each lap an easy benchmark), and it closes early in the season giving tourers unlimited access to routes on open clear terrain. Over the few weekends I had before the objective I would drive out, by myself, and try to increase my "laps" by one each time I went. Trying my best to maintain at least a pace of 1,000 ft per hour (including my transitions and skiing down) to be able to match my friend's speed. By the beginning of May when the face became too melted out to ski I had gotten up to five laps (or 5,000 ft of gain) in under 5 hours. I was feeling cautiously optimistic, maybe not for the summit (7,000 was still such a scary number), but at least I had given my body an idea of what getting to the top of the chutes would feel like.
The day finally came, June 3rd, 2023. A beautiful blue sky and warm weather beckoned us south and we followed. Alex and I drove up the night before, and one of his friends drove up from Oregon to meet us. Sadly, the road still hadn't fully melted out to Cold Springs, an infuriatingly narrow band of snow stretched along the road making it impassible to mortal vehicles. Instead, we ended up camping for the night at the lower campground, Morrison Creek, which would add two miles and almost 1,500 ft of extra gain. Despite the setback we assessed our plan and determined we were all still up for the challenge, so we geared up at four in the morning and set out toward the mountain.
We made ground quickly on the Shorthorn Trail that left directly from Morrison, our ski boots covered in dirt and mud from the two miles on trail. We made it to the snow line within an hour of leaving camp, where we could finally take the skis off our backs and start skinning. We continued upward, not following any specific track, but instead pointing ourselves toward the south end of the mountain and watching for snow-free obstacles as we went. The experience was magical. The pink and yellow sunrise shimmering in the sky, lighting up Mt. Hood on the horizon. The mountain ahead keeping us in its looming shadow. Our skins whining against the snow, hardened and rippled from melting and refreezing over and over again.
Somewhere around 7,500 ft, as the sun crested the ridge and put us in full yellow warmth, we were going up a particularly steep and icy hill along the main route. Ski crampons were a piece of gear not yet in my kit, which meant there was no way I was going to be able to side-hill up the crusty slope. Instead, I took off my skis and donned my boot crampons for the first time and hiked up the hill. The other two in my party had already been skinning with crampons and continued up the slope, cutting shallow switchbacks and zig-zagging up. I made it to the top only a bit behind Alex, and together we awaited his friend who was moving a bit slower. After only a minute or two we heard a scared shout and a skier from another group below us calling out, "Are you okay?".
Our teammate had slipped while skinning and slid all the way back down the slope, easily two or three hundred feet. Luckily, they had not been in the path of any of the exposed rocks and made it out injury free, but were rightfully shaken by the experience. Together we decided to continue on, but our new cautious pace and the time lost from collecting strewn gear meant our plans for the day had most likely been dashed. At the Lunch Counter we decided we were too far behind schedule and skied back down the South Climb, bouncing between wallowing sun cups and decent slushy skiing.
The trip ended bittersweet, the setting was incredible and I had done well physically, despite not having done the most challenging part. At the time I remember feeling like I could have kept going for hours or picked up the pace significantly. It was my first time really spring touring and my first time on a volcano, I had caught the bug for sure. I knew that wouldn't be my only attempt so I logged it away for next season when I could come back even more prepared.
The next year (2024) I made friends with another crew who were touring pretty regularly and managed to put lots of miles on my shiny red crows throughout the winter. This group had their eyes set firmly on Mt. Baker, and I too got deep into prepping for it. We all took crevasse rescue courses and planned for that attempt throughout the spring with a dialed focus. Mt. Adams was still sitting somewhere in my subconscious, a neat idea, but now far second to the new goal. Our focus and practice paid off, and we skied the Coleman-Deming in May to great success, allowing Baker to overtake Adams as my first volcano summit.
I spent the rest of May and June backpacking, climbing, and hiking and had managed to put skiing almost completely out of my mind. One day near the end of June though I saw a message pop up in a Facebook group I used for skiing. Someone was looking for a team to join them in skiing the Southwest Chutes. The date they were talking about was in... July!? I scrambled, reading reports, finding recent pictures of the mountain, checking weather. It was in? Again, I was shocked at how little I knew. How unattuned I still was to the seasons and weather here, despite feeling like I learned so much in my lead up to Baker. I threw my name in the chat and enthusiastically joined three complete strangers (after a quick vetting of their prior experiences – I was easily the least competent) and started unpacking all of my ski gear from it's storage boxes.
We drove up June 29th (nothing like 5 hours in a car with strangers to really get to know each other!) and planned another single strike mission up to the summit and then down the chutes. This time we had no trouble getting up to the Cold Springs trailhead, and managed five hours of sleep before an early wakeup call at 3:00 AM. Now, somewhat familiar with the route and armed with more experience and proper gear, I was able to move confidently alongside my new partners up the south climb.
We pushed past Timberline in well under an hour, slogged our way up to the Lunch Counter, and started our climb up to Pikers. This was where my familiarity ran out. We had been able to skin the entirety of the route up to this point, even making it half way up Pikers before having to transition, but by 10,000 ft we were hiking up the slope with our crampons on and I was feeling the altitude.
I struggled far more with the elevation than I had on Mt. Baker. Whether it was the quick pace we were keeping or the continuous steep slope, by the time we made it to the summit push my head was pounding and I couldn't keep my heart rate down. Riding on adrenaline and excitement that had been compounding from the wild view and the camaraderie of new friends, I pushed through, heaving step after step to make it to the summit. I stayed only long enough to take a few photos and transition onto my skis, I was the first to depart the summit to try and find some relief from my swollen head.
Despite it being July 1st, the snow off of the summit was covered in a thick icy crust that resembled rime ice blown in waves over the mountain. The skiing was horrible for the first five or six hundred feet, my skis barely able to bite in and when they did the thick crust held onto them stopping me in my tracks. It was a decent sign for us though, despite having sat in the sun for a couple of hours it was firm at this altitude, that meant lower down where the temperatures were higher it would hopefully be softening just enough for good skiing. By the time I reached the long flat traverse to the chutes the pain in my head and almost completely subsided and my mood improved dramatically. I was finally going to ski the chutes!
The skiing once we entered was magical, completely living up to the hype of the line. We arrived at the top just after noon to a bit of ice at the entrance and beautiful corn throughout the middle section. I ripped down, hooting and hollering as we made long arcing turns for a thousand feet, each of us pausing just enough to catch our breaths and take videos of one another. The temperature was rising quickly though as we descending and I was caught off guard by an extreme and sudden warming of the snow under my feet. In an instant the snow went from wonderful skiable slush to rotten goo. My skis sunk into the wet snow and stuck firmly, pulling me off my feet and causing me to tumble for 15 or 20 feet. Luckily the snow was so thick I didn't continue sliding and the fall was controlled enough that my skis stayed on with my knees intact. All of a sudden we could tell, we were in a danger zone. We had been planning on warming being an issue, enough so that wet loose avalanches were the top of our hazard list, but up until this point we had seen nothing but green signs. Now, feeling the rotten snow under my feet the possibility felt almost inevitable.
The group came in around me and we reassessed the situation, picking our line and trying to move quickly through the most consequential terrain. Not long after, a group above us triggered a slide, the wet snow slid down the slope for 1,500 ft crossing between our party. Luckily we had put ourselves in a good position and there weren't any hazards beneath us had the slide taken anyone for a ride, but we were on edge. We maneuvered around the slow, continuously creeping snow stream and traversed out of the line.
It was hot down here below 7,000 ft and we stripped off as many layers as we could once we were finished with the skiing. We slowly slogged out, absolutely drenched in sweat as we swapped back and forth between short stints of skiing and quick hikes over exposed rock and dirt. We finally made it back to the cars after 13 hours on the mountain, out of water and with legs made of jello.
After having summited Adams, and experienced all the suffering the warm exit had entailed, I put it out of my mind for the next season. I explored around the state more, and kept my eyes out for conditions for other mountains, both Hood and Rainier high on my list. Yet, anyone who was in Washington for the 24/25 season knows just how strange the weather patterns were. Between a dry winter, a wet spring, and my own issues timing objectives with partners – nothing seemed to be working out. By May I had essentially resigned myself to a volcano-summit-less-year, content with other big days I had managed and excited to start trail running again as the mountains began to dry out.
Secretly lurking however, Mt. Adams would spring back into my season just as surprising as it had the year prior...
The second week of June I got together with my buddies Jason, Hugo, and Julian to discuss plans around a great high pressure spell throughout the region, initially wanting to use this window to summit and ski Mt. Hood. However, conditions on Hood were looking dire. After all of the heat, most of the routes were melted out and rocky, bringing with it overhead hazards and terrible skiing. We looked around at other trip reports, deliberating between mountains while sitting at a small table in Rosita's Green Lake. One of those objectives was the Southwest Chutes, it was looking in good condition as June typically did, much better than it's cousin to the south. Everyone had summited the mountain before, but I was the only one lucky enough to have properly tagged the chutes. So, it was decided, we would head back out, forgoing the summit to focus on getting prime ski conditions to finish off our season.
We drove up Saturday, once again car camping at the Cold Springs Trailhead for an early wake up call the next day. We wouldn't start till 4:00 AM given our non-summit goal and the expectation of good ski conditions not hitting their peak until noon. The South Climb went similar to the past attempt, hitting snow and hanging our trail-runners in a tree around 6,500 ft and then meandering where ever we could stay on snow to climb higher. Despite being almost a month earlier than my previous attempt it was lower-tide, and multiple times we had to take off our skis and boot over short sections of rock to continue onward. We had seen the chutes from afar and they seemed still very in, but this worried me for the exit which already required plenty of shenanigans even with more snow.
Julian had brought his dog, Zora, ( one of the other benefits of skiing on National Forest land) and she was struggling on the hard icy snow enough that they had fallen behind us. Our original plan had been for them to make it up Pikers, but not attempt the chutes (bringing a dog on 35°+ was a scary thought), but after the pacing issues we decided to split up there, leaving Julian to ski down from the lunch counter with Zora while we ascended higher.
I never like to split up a group, but we had radio contact and the south side of Adams is a fairly straightforward solo mission anyways. Jason, Hugo, and I started up the Pikers climb each choosing a slightly different variation of when to switch from skis to boots, testing out which seemed like the faster method of travel.
"Bonking" is a term, originally coined by cyclists, but now adopted by many different endurance disciplines, to denote when an athlete suddenly runs out of energy, typically caused by the depletion of their glycogen (glucose based energy) stores. You may have heard of "hitting the wall" in a marathon which is often the same thing.
I was feeling great, and let myself get a bit ahead of Jason and Hugo on the climb. When I was getting close to the top they radioed to me and told me they felt like they were "bonking" and needed to take a longer rest before they continued on. Rather than sit on top of Pikers for an hour, I decided to push on to the summit (with their blessing) and would attempt to meet them back as they reached the entrance to the chutes. I picked up my pace just a bit more and resolved myself to take no more breaks to make sure I didn't cause them to wait, if I couldn't summit in an hour I would turn back wherever I was.
As soon as I crossed over 11,000 ft the altitude hit me again, not quite as bad as last time, but enough that I was impacted noticeably. Across the long flat to the summit block I struggled to walk a straight line, despite my legs feeling fine my body as a whole felt exhausted. I felt locked inside of myself, moving only because my legs went on without explicit instructions from my brain to do so.
There is a curious mental space you can enter when you are pushing hard, (some people call it the "pain cave") when you get so tired that you feel like you are looking out from inside of yourself and your subconscious starts to bargain with you. It starts to spin stories about about how incredible it would feel to stop and rest. It tries to convince you there isn't any reason to put yourself through this, that it's meaningless. The hardest part about this is that it's always right, and it repeats these things over and over again, trying to beat you down. Yet, something inside of you, whether you call it will or stupidity, can override those thoughts and keep your body moving with simple impulse, turning your limbs over like simple machines.
In the moment I couldn't have said why I continued pushing there, why I didn't slow down or turn back. My subconscious was right! I had been there before, there wasn't any glory, any new viewpoint, any realization I was going to find about myself. It was all arbitrary. All I knew was that I wanted to be moving. I wanted to feel that simple repetition of my crampons crunching in the snow, of my heartbeat thumping through my ears. It felt good, despite feeling bad. That last hour felt as though it could have been as long as the entire day up to that point, time stretching out in my head as I stared down at my feet. Eventually the slope eased and I found myself looking out at a bright blue panorama. The summit was full of activity, a group of a dozen or so guys were partying, one of them even smoking a cigarette. I must have looked haggard because they all cheered me on and welcomed me to the summit when I got there. The people in the mountains are wonderful even if they are humbling. There's always a bigger fish...
I had made the push from pikers to the summit in 55 minutes, ecstatic at that pace and happy to have far less of a headache than the last time I sat on the summit. I planted myself on the remains of the lookout, eating sour patch kids and gazing out over the hazy horizon, before radioing down to the boys that I had made it and I would be skiing down to them shortly. The timing had been perfect, they had just made it to Pikers, so I transitioned my skis, repacked my bag, and headed down to them.
The low-tide continued even at the summit, much of the south face was bare, leaving only a sliver of skiable snow that had formed moguls from all of the traffic coming through. I tried my best to connect my turns and look like a proper ski mountaineer as I passed the conga-line of people making their way up to the summit (I had to take 4 or 5 breaks before I made it to the traverse ✌️). All told it took me about a half hour to make it to the entrance of the chutes. The lower altitude reinvigorated me once again and I sat in the sun, enjoying the accomplishment, while I waited on Jason and Hugo's transition. I had met one of the guys at the summit, John, who came in just a moment after me and asked if he could join us on the descent so he didn't make a wrong turn.
So, our little group became four again, and we descended into immediate corn on the chutes. The skiing was amazing, just as I had remembered, steep but controllable with endless views. What a place! Of course, in classic me fashion, I hit a hard refrozen rollerball and high-sided... sliding 20 or so feet before managing to get my skis under me again. A little shaken by yet another fall on the chutes, I took the rest of the line slower, fearful that I would hit the horrible rotten slush at any moment. Luckily, we got fairly consistent skiing through most of the line, only the very bottom started to become a more mashed potatoes consistency. We danced around the exposed rocks and tried to traverse over to the semi-bare exit without having to take off our skis (we managed with only one walking section).
At the end of the line we stopped and debated the route for a while. The path I had taken before required one more transition, skinning uphill for ~300 ft and then crossing multiple rock bands. Another option was to drop down from here to the "Round the Mountain" trail and walk back (in our ski boots) to the Timberline camp where our trail runners were stashed. We chose the high route, wanting to avoid walking in our boots, but said goodbye to our new friend John who had walked his non-split snowboard up the mountain and had his shoes with him (spoiler alert: John would beat us to the cars by an hour).
After skinning up hill, skiing, taking off our skis, walking across dirt, skiing, taking off our skis, walking across dirt (over and over again) we discovered we had gone too low at some point and decided to give in. We strapped our skis back on the pack and walked downhill until we reached the "Round the Mountain" trail and hiked back. Sadly when we reached the junction our shoes were 200 ft uphill, so I dropped my bag and ran ahead to collect them.
Taking of sweaty ski boots in favor of trail runners is a magical feeling, even when you know you have to add the boot weight to your pack for the rest of the hike out. It's those little things that matter so much on a type 2 kind of day.
All in all, this trip took us almost exactly 14 hours. With my summit push it ended up being a 7,600 ft day, but would be about 1,000 ft less if you just did the chutes.
That was a lot of backstory for a post called "A Dummies Guide to Ski Mt. Adams". I feel like an online recipe writer, adding my whole life story before giving you the ingredients list to chocolate chip cookies...
I do hope the personal experience will help someone glean some kind of insights into what this undertaking means to someone who is not entirely used to the big mountains, and prove that (while i'm certainly entertaining no ideas of being an "expert" on this mountain or any other) I have enough real experiences to back up the advice that I give here. So, for those who want some beta on the line, here ya go.
Typically Mt. Adams south end is accessible in the late spring, typically sometime in May depending on how far up you want to be able to drive. The two roads you need to monitor for access to the South Climb trailhead are NF-8040 and NF-500 which lead to the "Cold Springs Trailhead". These can be monitored via Gifford Pinchot National Forest Service site:
If NF-8040 is open but NF-500 is still showing blockage you just need to account for additional mileage added to your day. Many people ski Mt. Adams earlier even when there are multiple miles of skinning or walking required to reach the south climb.
One of the things most people are looking for when skiing any volcano is CORN! Getting into the exact theory of how to time corn perfectly could take up an entire blog post of its own, but there are a few basic tips I have found, especially for the specific SW aspect of the chutes on Adams, to be helpful.
I have found when skiing in "summer" conditions this can be anywhere from 11 AM to 1 PM (or not happen at all) depending on the conditions you have. No one can figure this out exactly for you, but you can practice and ask others for recent info, its all preparation!
Mt. Adams is a pretty straightforward volcano for skiing, there aren't any glacier hazards on the south route so, as long as you don't get way off route, you can leave the rope and glacier kit at home. I have a few pieces of gear for volcanos in general that I prefer, though I've seen people without them, or with things I don't carry, it's all personal preference so take these recommendations how ever you want.
Otherwise treat this like any other ski tour you are going on: layer for the weather, pack enough food to not bonk, and pick your favorite light pair of skis!
I outlined the south climb trail milestones in the beginning of this post, so let's focus primarily on the descent now. Don't worry, the south climb is very straightforward, in fact you can see pretty much where you are going the whole morning, Pikers is visible from almost every spot on the climb.
When leaving the summit you will be able to see Pikers below you, back the way you came. Its the large hump skiers left as you make your way down down. Follow the approach trail traversing the flat spot, and just before you would crest the ridge to return to the south climb trend further skiers right into the obvious funnel. There will be multiple entry points, there often appear to be three chutes - though conditions may cause these to appear joined or split further, no matter what you see if you want to ensure you don't end up on Avalanche Glacier hug skiers left.
Once you are in the chutes you will be able to see the entirety of the line, thanks to the steepness of the mountain. Depending on how you entered the fall line may draw you towards a slightly different drainage. Again here, hug skiers left especially as you descend further down. By 8,000 ft you should be traversing to the left-most rock band where you will continue down a mellow slope to the exit of the line, around 7,000 ft.
Here you will be able to decide which route off the mountain you will take:
A hard left around the end of the rocky ridge will allow you to begin traversing the mountain. You'll reach another drainage where you will have to transition, and skin back up to ~7,400 ft where you can traverse back to the south climb. This is the line I took in both of my trips. You need to continue staying as high as possible, even when this means skiing for a few hundred feet to the next rock band, taking off your skis, walking over, and repeating again and again. If you manage to stay above 7000 ft you will eventually connect again with the south climb trail where you can ski down to stashed shoes at the junction.
If you continue heading down, you can ski for another 1,000 ft (or until the snow runs out) and you will eventually reach the "Round the Mountain" trail where you should transition and start walking back to the junction. Roughly plotted on a map this is +/- a two mile walk to the junction. I haven't taken this route, but it seems like a good option, especially if you are okay carrying shoes all day.
If I were to do this again (and I'm sure I will) I would vote to carry my shoes with me, or walk in my ski boots on the "Round the Mountain". Dealing with the constant on and off of the skis on the "normal" descent is tedious and annoying when you are already tired from a full day. Though, until I have actually completed that route, I will give that advice with a grain of salt!
I've included the complete tracks from both successful trips of mine here, you can see that they follow slightly different lines both on the up and down, depending on snow conditions and decision making on the day.
I hope the information this dummy has provided will be helpful to someone, I know I will be returning to it in the years to come to plan my trips. Let me know if you use these tips, or if there are any I should add.
I hope to see you out there!
27.6.2025 01:52A Dummies Guide to Skiing Mt. AdamsIt can be a bit overwhelming at times – the sheer abundance of beautiful and interesting terrain that exists across Washington. Depending on where you look (or who you ask) the cascades here hold somewhere between three and four thousand named peaks. Far more than any one person could hope to even see in their lifetime, let alone climb or ski on. Each of us must decide how we want to filter down this incredible mass of choice. Whether by ease-of-access, word-of-mouth, or pure random chance, we have to find a way of overcoming this absurdity of options.
A quote from Albert Camus comes to me when thinking about this kind of abundance in all aspects of life:
“You will never be able to experience everything. So, please, do poetical justice to your soul and simply experience yourself.”
While I tend to find myself longing more in the way Sylvia Plath does on the same topic, wanting to experience it every little thing, I have tried my best to follow his advice and experience that which comes most naturally. Following my excitement to those things that call me rather than waste away attempting to chase every novel thing or check off every box. And so, the North Cascades had been left aside as a part of this self-selection. They are remote, tucked away out of sight, with limited access and less notoriety. So it was easy to exclude them for the peaks I saw constantly on the skyline. Rather than seeking them out when recommended I instead spent my more limited days in the Baker-Snoqualmie Forest and at the ever shining Rainier, enjoying the bounty of what called out. I felt fine with the self-imposed blinders on as it kept me from choice paralysis. "I'll get out there one day" I told myself, seeing how much I have changed in the past couple of years, figuring it's challenge would call me eventually.
All of this time spent looking at maps led me to the conclusion that one's horizon can only stretch so far, it's inhibited by what we know and what we have seen. Which is why it is so important to have community in these spaces, to be surrounded by others (especially ones who are more experienced and generally cooler than you are) who can bring their own sights and help ours grow.
So, one day recently I received a call from beyond my horizon. A friend was in town, he was joining up with some local skiers he met earlier in the winter, for a weekend in the North Cascades, mainly focused on a ski descent of the South Face of Black Peak (a mountain I had never heard of before this invitation).
After some quick research I was a bit spooked. The mountain was menacing looking, a stark pyramid covered in far more rock and steeper pitches than anything else I had skied in the backcountry this season. It didn't seem out of my abilities, but on top of the size of it, the day would include a party of people I hadn't met before, which always adds a layer of anxiety. How fast will they be? How serious? How stoked? The fear of being the heavy anchor that keeps a team from reaching their objective is strong when I am pushing into the unknown. I planned a few contingencies, places I could wait or stop while the team went higher if I felt uncomfortable, and got myself to a point where I was excited to join.
I drove out early, leaving Seattle around 3:30am to arrive before 7am. We were planning as best we could around our expectations of the corn cycle, trying to maximize the quality of the skiing we would receive on the various aspects. The day was looking perfect while I drove up Highway 20, some wispy high clouds, but mostly blue skies. The stoke grew and grew as the mountains did around me.
My buddy was already at the trailhead from camping out the night before, so we met up when I arrived and prepped while we waited for the others. Rainy Pass trailhead wasn't plowed and there was a solid 2ft still accumulated next to the road, a welcome sign after the low tides I had been experiencing elsewhere across the state. Once the whole crew was together and introduced (just a bit later than planned) we started skinning up the summer trail toward Ann Lake.
The forest was thick and full of deadfall so once we got past the initial climb (around 5400ft) we dropped down off of the summer trail and skinned the draining to Ann Lake. When we got to the edge of the lake we noticed some pooling forming as the surface ice began to melt around the edge of the lake, but the center looked solid and there were no open spots so we decided to skin across rather than adding time and traversing around the southern edge of the lake. Luckily it was solid and held under us without any issues and we made our way up the other side onto Heather Pass.
We took a quick water and food break after our first climb and transitioned our skis, beginning the long side-hill to Lewis Lake. It was here that we got our first real glimpse of Black Peaks massive summit pyramid. It was huge and rocky, a perfect picture of a mountain, but still far from us so we ripped skins and traversed towards it. We were able to stay high and contour under the southern ridgeline until around 5600ft, just at the east foot of the lake before we had to transition back to walking.
It was a long but uneventful climb, traversing through mostly open and low angle terrain. We watched our left side carefully, while most of the overhead hazards had already run, there were a few remaining cornices that hung menacingly – looking ready to pop as the temps continued to rise.
Since we had started a bit late it was hot, and we were baking in the sun. I was constantly worrying about having botched the conditions for the day. The forecast had called for more cloud cover to roll in and out throughout the day which would have kept conditions cooler, but we were well into the corn cycle by this point in the approach leaving us worried we would be skiing sludge in a few hours when we dropped. The best hope at this point was to catch reverse corn as the temps dropped in the afternoon, maybe even waiting for the sun to droop lower to get it right.
As we passed Wing Lake and headed up towards the ridge the wind picked up dramatically, pouring over the col and into the basin. We relished the drop in temperatures, even adding on layers, as we took off our skis and booted up the col. We chose the lookers left side given conditions, a string of small cornices lined the bowl which would have been hard to surmount and scary to walk under. The boot was short and not too steep, the route we chose required a small section of rock to catch the top of the col, but was fairly straightforward.
Once on top of the ridge we lost most of our snow cover, instead finding a field of rusty rock exposed between us and the south face. We removed our crampons but kept our skis on our packs to hike over the couple hundred feet of scree. It was at this point that we could finally see our ski line, a thin swath of snow leading onto the large open south side of the mountain. Lower down the coverage was spotty, and our original plan of navigating back through Last Chance Pass took a final hit. We decided then that we would come back over this pass and return the way we came after skiing the technical upper portion of the line rather than risk the conditions somewhere we hadn't seen yet far further below us.
After stumbling through the loose rock we donned our crampons again and began booting up the final 1000ft or so of snow before the top of the line. The snow was warm and the exposed rocks heated it even further making much of the snow rotten below our feet. We tried to stay in the center where the snow was coldest, but post-holed a good percentage of our steps anytime we had to pass by exposed rocks. At one point we passed a rock formation that chocked the line into a narrow corridor, and a group mate sunk waist deep into the bergshrund-like opening that had formed underneath it where the snow had melted out significantly.
Once we made it through the long slog up the snow to the top of the line it became nothing but rocks. Thomas and Hayden clambered up them, doing the short scramble to the true peak of Black. I decided instead to rest and eat while enjoying the massive view of the North Cascades. Both post-holing and the heat had beaten some of the excitement out of me and I wasn't up for rock climbing in my ski boots, I needed to save the energy I had left to ski.
From the top you could see Glacier Peak, Goode Mountain, and hundreds of others I couldn't name by sight. It was miraculous. Enough to make me wonder how I had kept myself out of this place for so long. The peaks felt huge (even bigger than the mountains I was now starting to get used to in the more-southern-cascades) and absolutely endless.
Once the group had their fill of scrambling we transitioned our skis and started excitedly down the steep line. Despite the snow being in poor condition for climbing, it was in pretty great condition for skiing. The slush made for well controlled turns despite the pitch of the run, letting us open up and ski strongly despite tired legs. We took it one-by-one and skied a few hundred feet lower than where we started booting, where we transitioned back onto the rock to regain the col so we could drop back into the basin leading us to Wing Lake.
We took the skiers left side into the bowl, the more traditional approach route, rather than trying to ski over the exposed rocks on the skiers right where we had climbed. There was a short steep entry to avoid airing out the small cornices hanging over rock, but the skiing from here was even better than above. The wind in the basin kept the snow colder and we were able to ride fast, at some points getting proper reverse corn. We pointed our skis down where we could and contoured where we couldn't to avoid transitioning again until we made it back past Lewis Lake to the climb back up Heather Pass.
It was a straightforward, side-hilling skin up the pass, and we made quick work of it. I was eager to make it back to the cars where more water and food awaited and I could remove my sweaty boots.
Once we reached the top of Heather Pass, and started the ski descent back to the car, we could see Ann Lake was now significantly more melted out than it had been when we crossed this morning. The entire surface was puddled and the edges had opened up, firmly marking the lake off as a possibility for descending on. We cut through the trees, trying to stay on what little snow remained (sometimes having to ski over patches of dirt and bushes) to make our way along the summer trail. The group split up a bit at this point, depending on our skill an maneuvering through trees and walking up and down sections on skis (Evan our split-boarder was having a terrible time). I transitioned back to skins once to walk the flattest section in the Ann Lake drainage, before ripping the skins at 5400ft and making it back to the car with a little bit of pole pushing.
The day had been a success. The ending GPX line showed us at traveling 10.8mi and 5200ft of gain, though the watches in the group had those numbers higher – around 11.5 miles and 6000 ft. Either way we were out on the snow for a little over 10 hours with plenty of stoke built up!
We camped out at Blue Lakes Trailhead that evening, making steaks and fries on Evan's van stove, building back up our energy for another day of skiing tomorrow. We had visited the overlook and (without a real plan for the next day) scoped out new lines, landing on the Big Kangaroo. The couloir still looked filled in as far as we could tell, and you could access it almost directly from the road which was a nice change after such a long day. It was a wickedly aesthetic line - climbing straight up for nearly 3000ft, tightly wrapped in jagged red-orange rock - I had been hoping to avoid more booting (given the day we had just gone through), but it was hard to deny the appeal.
We got a nice casual start to the day – waking up as dozens of people were pulling into the Blue Lakes parking lot to begin the notorious Saturday migration up the Birthday Tour. After warming my boots and bones in the car we headed to the hairpin to find our way up. We had no real plan. Sure there was a forest between us and the couloir, but it was so close! How hard could it be to find our way to the base of it?
After a short creek crossing and two hours of bushwhacking, mud-walking, and post-holing, we escaped the dense forest and made it onto the open slopes of the lookers-right couloir.
I hesitate to go into more detail than that as our directions were hopelessly wrong and put us through some of the tightest and steepest tree approaching I have ever done (and we didn't even make it to the right place!)
We started up the lookers-right couloir, feeling fairly confident that it would connect to the line we had actually intended to ski further up, but if it didn't we would be skiing down this line. The drainage was filled with avalanche debris, rocks, and crunchy snow. Not ideal conditions for skiing. I crossed my fingers, praying to the mountains to not have to ski here... and that the conditions would be better on the other side.
We made quick work of the slope, the hard snow and directness of the couloir made for speedy booting. Slowly the terrain steepened and we found the bridge between the couloirs around 7200 ft, a wide field of snow for us to cross. The conditions didn't improve much as we crossed over, but there was far less avalanche debris and rocks here making the line look much more enticing.
Thomas and Evan who had been leading the pack the whole day were about 500ft ahead of the rest of the group, and as they reached the top of the col the rest of us decided to stop at a rocky outcropping around 7700ft so we could all transition at the same time (rather than making them wait for us to get to the top). By this point my legs were giving out, after tripling the amount of booting I had done all season in a short two days, I was eager to give them a break.
Unfortunately for us the clouds stayed socked in the entire day and the snow was rock hard as we took our first turns. I skidded dramatically with each turn as my exhausted legs struggled to maintain decent control. Watching the two drop in from the top, where the conditions were even worse, I quickly lost any regrets I was holding onto about not making it to the col. After a few hundred feet it slowly began to soften, eventually turning to a softer top layer that we could edge our skis into and link turns. Despite the bulletproof upper portion we managed a decent 1000ft of good skiing before re-entering the tight trees that would be our descent.
There was another party transitioning from skins to booting at the bottom of the couloir and they gave us good intel that they were able to keep their skis on all the way up to this point. If we just followed their tracks we would be able to ski all the way down to the road! I highly recommend this path both up and down if you are ever out here attempting this line.
We navigated down through the forest, making tight quick turns, only hitting a few rocks and tree roots, but ending up much more successful than the approach line. The group had been right we were able to keep our skis on almost the entire time (we popped them off to traverse a section, but a more motivated skier could have done it without) and made it down to the creek beside the road with little issue. However, one of the primary reasons we had gone further east on the approach was to utilize a snow bridge across the creek. Closer to the road there weren't any obvious crossings, but we were tired and rather than trek a couple hundred feet east we popped our skis and attempted to rock-hop across. One bad move and I ended up with ski-boot fully submerged. Luckily it happened at the end of the tour so I could quickly hobble to the car and dump the water from my boot rather than have to suffer with trench foot all day.
Despite all of the shenanigans, we made it through the day and skied a line just by sight! I ended with just under 3000ft of gain in 3.2 miles (a steep day) and a thorough respect for any well defined skin track through trees.
With the North Cascades fully opened to my horizon I know I'll be back soon. Maybe not for anymore skiing, but the summer is around the corner and there is plenty to do on foot. So take my experience as a reminder: there's always more to see just beyond what you know, let the people you have surrounded yourself with guide you to new and interesting places even if they feel out of reach.
19.5.2025 15:58Steep Skiing in the North Cascades: Black Peak and Big KangarooIf you spend any amount of time in the mountains, you'll find you quickly become acquainted with "failure". You'll spend hours or days or weeks planning out an objective, only to be unable to execute on the day for any number of reasons. Weather changing, route conditions deteriorating, getting lost, etc, etc, etc. If you also suffer from being a "weekend warrior" like myself this familiarity compounds quickly, as you only have access to so many days in a season to try and piece together all of the moving parts.
Failing over and over again will also change your relationship with its opposite - success. I have found it morphs and grows, broadening until it begins to take over space in your mind, leaving little space for much else. After years of having plans fall through and hopes dashed I have seen my definition of failure slowly dwindle, shrinking until it now only includes two real scenarios:
Either of those make for an undeniable failure of a day, but anything besides them - whether things go according to plan or not - is a day spent in the mountains. Sure I want to do something cool, to run, or climb, or ski the big spectacular thing (something worth writing about), but that isn't the end-all-be-all. One pitch of climbing, a single good ski run, or even just a few hours spent on a trail make for a more enjoyable day than almost anything else I could be doing. This mindset, of course, doesn't work for everyone - though I will try to infect anyone I'm with to join me in this kind of positivity. If you focus on the lessons learned, the silver linings, and the time spent with nature and friends it comes easier and easier.
I say all of this because my season has already been full of incomplete items and false starts - and the first real attempt of the "Chair Circumnavigation" was no exception.
The day started on rocky footing: warm temps, metric tons of avalanche debris from recent shedding covering much of the terrain, and rain coming in the afternoon giving us a looming deadline. Our little crew had been trying to find a window to attempt the "circumnav" for awhile now, and despite all of the caveats we figured it was still possible if we managed our time correctly.
I met up with Jason and Cameron for a semi-early start up to the pass. We arrived to a single other car in the Alpental back lot (definitely a red-flag at such a popular spot). The sun had started to come out though and we were feeling hopeful about our chances, so we geared up and started up the trail. We made quick work of it, only stopping once to let a cadre of snow-shoeing backpackers come down past us at the narrow section around Source Lake Falls, but otherwise we had the forest to ourselves.
We had seen all of the reports of recent avalanche activity in the basin, but seeing it in person was shocking. Two weeks of high-temps had caused nearly everything to shed down and out of Chair Peak's main slide paths, and rippling waves of snow were piled up on top of Source Lake.
Despite how terrible it is to have to ski over avalanche debris all of the shedding had started to let the snow pack stabilize and we were hopeful of finding some decent skiing down the remaining bed surface of the slide paths. It was far too warm for a real freeze-thaw cycle to start, so it wouldn't be corn, but some good spring slush would be a worthy consolation prize.
We avoided as much of the debris as possible to keep up our pace skinning and made our way up the increasing slope angle towards the Snow Lake divide. We took the shortest path and cut over before the NE ridge, taking the "North Slope Approach" up to Chair Peak Basin. We lost our solitude at this point and could hear the voices of the only other party echoing off the rock walls ahead of us. We slowly gained on them as we rose up into the Basin and found out they were heading the same way as us, but with their eyes on Cache Couloir.
After assessing at the activity in the Basin, we decided to boot up "Another Cool Chute" behind the other party rather than taking the typical approach up the notch onto the NE Buttress. The chute itself was easy booting, only a hundred feet or so, but the short access to the ridge was much steeper. We clambered up cautiously and found a perfect skin track leading to the base of the north face ready for us.
We had been making good time, but the sun had completely disappeared and winds were picking up, bringing in a swath of dark clouds. We quickly transitioned and started down the north slope. We had been working on the assumption that the north aspects would hold a somewhat supportive snow in the fall line, maybe even avoiding the severe warming of the more sun-forward aspects. The line had not been spared the high-temps though and had managed to hold onto more snow than the opposite side - leaving us with a thick gloopy mess. Skiing was slow and less enjoyable than we had hoped for. I found myself having to jump into every turn just to extract my tails from the heavy clumping and push my tips through the next turn. It was a struggle to get more than a handful of connected turns together as we pieced our way down the new terrain.
The route was straightforward enough, following the obvious fall line for 1000 feet until it ended in a large cliff band and we had to navigate through a slight choke and down a steep run off to Snow Lake's west end. Snow Lake was similarly covered in avalanche debris so we skirted across and began deliberating about our next steps. The conditions had slowed our pace and tired us out so our arrival at this point was already slightly delayed, but the incoming clouds spooked us that our window had already shrunk. This spot put us somewhere around half-way and given our current pace completing the loop would have us finishing just when the rain was originally supposed to start. Between the timeline and hesitations about the conditions we would find there were enough yellow-to-red flags to send us packing.
We skinned back along Snow Lake and up to the divide, transitioning one more time before dropping back into Source Lake Basin. To our surprise the south aspect was far more enjoyable to ski. It seemed as though more had shed here, leaving less snow to be warmed and turn to mush, and instead a thin layer of slush sat on top of a supportive bed surface allowing us to put together good turns. We ripped down to the avalanche debris and traversed across to the exit.
There were far more people out around Source Lake now to our surprise as light rain started to fall, clearly not everyone shared our reservations about getting rained on. We quickly skirted past them and went down through the luge track of the exit trail and made it back to the parking lot unscathed.
It ended up being a pretty short day: 7 miles and ~3000 feet of gain and descent. Our car-to-car time was 3 hours and 34 minutes. The line was exceptional, we are excited to go after it again in better conditions, and finally make it through the entire loop!
18.4.2025 16:28Failing Upwards: Skiing Chair Peak's North FaceThe winter hasn't yielded any big adventures for me yet, but there's been plenty of snow to play around in familiar places. So instead of recreating a full trip report from this past spring or summer, I figured I’d get a bit more "bloggy". I'll walk through what early season looks like for me and what I get up to as I rebuild my legs and skills for the big objectives looming on the horizon.
For the eager, the season typically starts in November. Those early days are spent watching forecasts intently, counting snow totals, checking resort cameras, and braving rock sharks, open creeks, and terrible skiing to see how things are shaping up.
Luckily for us, snow started falling and built a solid early-season base. By the time the turkey holiday rolled around, the passes were fully white and ready for exploration. The weekend before Thanksgiving, I met up with some friends at Stevens Pass to test out the snow and our fitness. As expected in November, conditions were variable, but we put up a good couple of slow laps and managed to find some hidden pockets of heavy PNW powder between the hard runnels forming in the open runs and the crusted under-tree snow.
The first ski day is always humbling, especially when touring. Despite tons of summer and fall training, my legs felt like jello afterward, and my turns left a lot to be desired. The stoke was high though (hard for it not to be when there’s snow under your feet).
"The higher the elevation, the better" is the mantra I imagine for the early-season skier. While we’re in short supply of high-elevation spots in Washington, Crystal had been getting plenty of snow, and opened early. I left Stevens behind and drove out to see what they had in store.
To my delight, they had enough snow to start turning Chair 6! December hadn't even shown its face yet, and the notoriously rocky ridgeline had solid coverage. I spent most of my day lapping Powder Bowl, drinking in the surprisingly soft north-facing snow. The face holds a special place in my heart as the first real steep terrain I ever skied, so being able to come back at the start of a season and play around in the chutes was a great confidence boost for the season to come.
In between trips to the resort, I kept up my fitness by lapping the unopened parts of Summit at Snoqualmie. Skiing through the east side has been my favorite way to get in shape for a while, and I’m certainly not alone in that thinking. Every time I go out, there are more and more people enjoying the marginal snow (touring is getting so popular!). It’s a blast to say hi to everyone's ski dogs as they bounce down the slope. It keeps the motivation high and the skin track interesting.
On one of these trips, I took a stroll with a friend into Hidden Valley to scout Mt. Catherine. I've been wanting to explore deeper into this side of the valley after some enjoyable summer days exploring the peaks snow-free.
What we could see was still dubiously filled in, and not looking for an adventure, we decided to stay by the lifts and lap Hyak instead. Coverage was spotty there too, though, and I managed to tumble right into an open hole after hitting an especially thick, wet section of snow. Luckily, there wasn’t any water (it was just a hotspot) so I was able to keep skiing without it completely ruining the day.
The end of December and beginning of January brought in the biggest storm we had seen yet. Some buddies and I took another trip to Crystal to hunt for some lift-accessed powder. Northway opened early, and we heard it was a madhouse (Any Washington skier knows how long the lift line gets on deeper days), so instead, we decided to play the long con in hopes that the Southback rope would drop off of Chair 6.
We took lap after lap there, skiing pretty great snow around Exhibition and Hamburger before starting to hike toward the Throne. We were just in time, the rope had dropped only minutes before we got there, and we shot over toward the King. We must have been in the first dozen people out there and found completely untouched snow off the saddle, so we dropped into Avy Basin, just on the other side of the Throne, and skied the incredible powder there. We hiked a couple more times until it started to track out and our legs were begging to ski something easier.
The next week, our legs were eager to get moving again, so the same crew got back together and ventured out to Snoqualmie Pass again. We had the harebrained idea to head up to the Slot Couloir in hopes of finding a cache of sheltered, dry snow on its prime north aspect. However, the approach quickly changed our hopeful outlook.
We found the worst, nearly unbreakable, tree-bombed-out crust waiting for us on Phantom. After a few hundred feet of trying to boot through it, we decided to bail. Slot wasn’t a guarantee anyways given the mixed avalanche forecast, and since this death crust would be our consolation prize if we bailed at the top, we figured it wasn’t worth the multi-hour sufferfest.
Instead, we descended the small amount of vertical gain we had made in the trees and followed the Snow Lake trail into Source Basin, talking through all of our other options. We decided to cross the divide to Snow Lake and keep searching for north-facing slopes as our best hope for light snow.
We were delighted with our decision. By the time we got to Source Lake, the snow quality had already improved dramatically, and we found at least a foot of beautiful powder as we descended down to Snow Lake. We skied the classic descent and then lines in the trees farther east, reveling in our conservative decision-making.
We turned back in the early afternoon as the sun started to sink lower (can’t wait for those long spring days). There had been plenty of people out in the morning, but by this point, it seemed as though we had the place to ourselves. The basin had mostly cleared of the large AIARE parties and dawn patrollers, but to our surprise, we saw a ski-paraglider coming off of Chair Peak, half-tangled in his lines as he tried to descend. We watched for a bit until he seemed to give up on the sail and take the ski down. We followed the long, icy luge track out and made it back to the car before the sun set.
January quickly dried up, temperatures soared during the day, and the sun shone for weeks on end (a classic fake Washington spring, if not a bit longer than usual). It was sad watching the snow disappear from the trees and thin out in open spots, showing the rocks and base that we’d hoped would already be buried. But we made the best of what we had.
Rather than braving crusty lower elevations in search of decent snow higher up, I spent most of this time lapping the resort with some friends learning how to ski. Pretending it’s spring is a good coping mechanism; stripping down the layers and getting a little sunburned keeps the spirits high and the muscles primed.
Finally, as February approached, the sun broke and precipitation returned all across the Cascades. We saw snow in Seattle and buckets in the mountains. Unfortunately, the long dry spell had created crusts and facets across the snowpack that the new snow fell on, creating worrying avy conditions, especially at high elevations.
I tagged up with some friends and skinned out to Roaring Ridge to ski some nice, protected trees holding on to nearly a foot of new powder. There was hardly anyone else out so we got our pick of fresh lines through the glades, catching light floaty turns while the snow continued to fall and refill the slope.
If there is one thing I learn on the first good snow tour every year it's that my powder skiing skills need some work! After only a couple of laps my legs were burning and struggling to make it through the tight trees at the bottom of the runs. Nothing puts motivation on the table like the feeling of flying through powder though, so I'm here hoping the snow holds and the weak layers begin to heal so we can all get out and tag some big lines in these conditions!
6.2.2025 19:11Winter so farWhen I set out this summer to start putting together ridge runs and backcountry loops, I stumbled upon a handful of trip reports from the south side of Snoqualmie Pass. The reports linked together some of the peaks that hug the PCT, and quickly few names started to stand out: Tinkham, Silver, Abiel, Catherine. I'd heard about some of these before, but I'd never made it further south than ski touring at Summit.
Here are a few of my favorite inspirations
It was clear that there was something here though, a large set of well traveled trails, all criss-crossing one another. Ripe for exploration and a spin of my own.
I put together a few tracks at home, trying to scope out what was possible. One route starting from the Annette Lake trailhead and climbing up Silver or Abiel, one from the Mt. Catherine trailhead starting at Windy pass and heading down the PCT then looping back around Twin Lakes, another starting from Mirror Lake and winding north across the peaks and back on the PCT. My map was a mess.
After all of this research a Sunday rolled around with good weather so I headed out to the pass. I had some obligations in the evening so I chose the shortest loop I had concocted: starting from Mirror Lake and heading towards Tinkham. A theoretical 9 mile loop over three peaks, which barring any major obstacles should have me home by noon.
I arrived early to a completely empty trailhead after bouncing around on forest road 5480 for a half an hour. The air was delightfully crisp and a thin shimmer of light and blue sky were already breaking through the trees as I hiked the last stretch of washed out road to the Mirror Lake Trailhead. My spirits were exceedingly high.
The trail started easily; with soft, loamy, and runnable dirt trails past Cottonwood Lake and Mirror Lake, where I joined up with the PCT running south. There were a few through-hikers already starting their day, hiking casually or breaking down camp around the lake. I stopped for a minute to talk to a pair who were asking where I was coming from (they initially thought I had already run from the pass to this point). I was only on the PCT for a moment though, quickly breaking off onto the steep climbers trail that forked off vaguely at the south end of the lake and headed straight up the forest towards the south ridge of Tinkham Peak.
I really mean vaguely here, it was hardly a trail at all, just a lightly cleared path through the trees. I lost the trail for bits at a time, at one point ending up 30 feet or so below it, having to bushwack through the wet brush to regain the path. After a half mile under tree cover I broke out onto the ridgeline and could see the clouds parting over the valley.
Above me, the path was clear towards the rocky summit, following a thin packed line along the ridge around the steepest sections of rock. I picked up the pace a bit after having slogged the steep forest uphill, excited to be on more open terrain.
The first of the two peaklets that make up Tinkham was a short hop from there, a thin rocky outcropping steeply dropping toward the lake below it. I stood for a while taking in the view. The clouds had parted perfectly to expose the rippling waves of forested ridges running east to west out in front of me. After a moment I realized the second peaklet to my left stood slightly higher than the spot where I was so I walked the narrow band of stones and dirt made up the tiny saddle between them and took my break there.
After a quick snack, I dropped off the peak to the north, descending the scree filled slope back into the forest. It wasn't so sketchy that I needed to use my hands or even my poles, but the rock here was loose and I kicked down a soccer ball sized block, making me question the decision not to bring a helmet. Luckily it only lasted for 50 feet or so and I was back on solid ground.
The next section was hardly a trail at all, just a steep descent through sparse forest that required ducking under low tree branches and sliding down wet soil. It eventually mellowed as I got onto the large saddle shared between Tinkham, Abiel, and Silver. I jogged along the trail, winding through the patchwork of forest and meadow, overgrown blueberry shrubs and low bushes soaking my shoes with heavy dew. I passed a few hikers coming up from the PCT towards Silver Peak before ducking west at the fork leading up to Abiel. After pushing through a short bit of forest, it was a short walk over loose talus and some minor 2nd class to reach the peak, which gave great views of Silver rising out of the low clouds.
I was feeling great at this point, despite being extremely wet from all of the dewy foliage. Two peaks down and I could see the well-traveled trail up Silver already dotted with hikers. I signed the summit register hidden in a rusted out ammo container, already packed full of names, and headed back down the way I came.
The hike to Silver was well-worn and busy, unlike Abiel and Tinkham which had been completely empty. The path carved along the ridge, cresting over a small false summit and pushing through long sections of talus. The piles of grey and orange rocks jumbled together give the mountain its name, "Silver", it's bare head stark against the other tree covered peaks that surround it. The trail through it all was surprisingly well crafted despite the traditionally difficult terrain, talus and scree pushed together into stable wells of rock, a testament to the trail workers in this area.
I passed casual day hikers, families full of kids, and other trail runners; the peak was busy with everyone out enjoying a break in the clouds. At the top I ate a Snickers happily while scoping out the next section below the peak which had been one of the few question marks on this outing. The northeast ridge off of Silver would bring me back down onto the PCT without doubling back, but from my seat on the peak it looked sharper and rockier than I had anticipated for. I was eager to try it out, but after seeing no sign of previous attempts, and not wanting to burn the time required to double-back if it didn't work, I chose to instead return the way I came and drop down to the PCT via a connecting trail just under Abiel.
I was rather bummed to have sacrificed the aesthetics of the route, but this had been my first real attempt at something "unknown" alone. I tried not to beat myself up too hard for bailing on a small piece of it, the route back was enjoyable anyways, almost completely runnable. I took comfort in the movement, knowing the other direction in the best case would have involved scree fields and bushwhacking.
There were plenty of people out now on the trails below Silver, making their way up or just spending time around Mirror Lake, and by the time I made it back to the trailhead there were what seemed like hundreds of cars lining the forest road. The sun was shining high now, it was noon and it felt warm and lively. It had turned into a gorgeous summer day and I was sweating accordingly.
The loop was complete: 9 miles and 4,000 feet of elevation gain in a little over 4 hours. It wasn't perfect but it was enlightening. Discovering how much new terrain I could cover in such a short amount of time. I'll be back again to this sector, maybe there is a Tinkham Quad to be had by attaching Humpback or Mt. Catherine, and I need to find out if the northeast ridge is scrambleable for my own sanity.
Overall I would highly recommend this linkup as an extension of the more popular hikes in the area. Get some solitude, get some vert, and let me know how it goes!
21.12.2024 00:14The Tinkham TripleI've been on a bit of a journey this year.
After falling head over heels for ski touring in the winter, I found myself with more endurance than ever before and an aching desire to leave trails behind and head into the backcountry. This hasn't been my summer M.O., I've been a steward of the popular hike and well known multi-pitch or crag, now neither seemed to hold the same appeal to me anymore once the snow began to melt out in June. So, I hung up my trad-rack and started exploring as best I could.
Over the summer, I joined a friend in an attempt to summit Mt. Index via the Persis traverse, I spent the better part of a week section hiking the PCT through the cascades, and I ran the Enchantments traverse with my wife and a friend. They were all great days in the mountains, but none of them gave me the specific rush I was looking for. I felt stuck. Stuck on well traveled routes and straddled down by my inability to find my own way. So, in August I began something new. I wanted to start finding my way off-trail (responsibly), I wanted to learn how to properly read a map and discern if I could venture there, I wanted to find the thing my heart had been looking for. I started spending hours scanning through the cascades in my free time. I was looking on every map I could find for more remote trails. Trails that intersected others to create loops or lollipops, trails that lead me further away than I had been before. I read trip report after trip report on random trail runs and mountain climbs. I was looking for the spaces between trails that were possible to traverse and create something new.
The first route I made on my own was an optimistic loop connecting a few peaks out by Keechelus Lake (Tinkham, Abiel, and Silver) via the PCT and a few smaller climbers trails. The feeling of crossing over Tinkham's multiple peaklets and continuing on was a bit intoxicating and gave me the inkling I was onto something. The rest of the peaks on the "loop" ended up requiring some out-and-back work to connect, which I found less ideal, but the experience opened my eyes to the thing I had really been looking for. I returned to my map scouring and put together a loop connecting a handful of peaks lining Kent ridge on the I-90 corridor (Dutchess of Kent, Duke of Kent, and Mt. Kent). This one went horribly, my optimism had exceeded my abilities and I ended up with no peaks, no loop, and torn up legs and arms from bushwhacking in shorts through maws of Devil's Club (perhaps the nastiest plant to grace the Cascadian slopes). I wasn't deterred though, perhaps even finding myself more stubbornly resolute, I kept on looking for more.
Through all of my research I had seen multiple reports for trail runs in an area around Mt. Rainier that I hadn't been to before, the Carbon Glacier/Mowich side. The reports showed stunning views and big aesthetic loops, mostly circumnavigating the mother group. I took a look for myself on the map and after putting together a half dozen possible routes I packed up the car and drove the long unpaved forest road out to Mowich Lake to see if one of them would go.
I arrived at the Spray Park trailhead early, trying to beat the crowds of people who would show up in the late morning to make their way up to the Tolmie fire lookout (by far the most popular reason for heading to this side of Rainier). I wasn't alone though, the parking lot was already full of backpackers and hikers buzzing about in the cold morning air. Some of them starting out on the Wonderland trail, others strapped with crampons and ice axes headed for the Carbon glacier. I was surprisingly the only light pack among them all, feeling underdressed in my shorts and run vest, but that was the way I preferred it as the chances of me spending my day in solitude continued to rise.
I ran the first two miles on the Spray Park trail before the terrain steepened and I slowed to a steady hike. I was heading out on my imagined loop counter-clockwise towards Mt. Pleasant where I was hoping I would be able to access the ridgeline heading towards Fay Peak and onwards. Once I finished the switchbacks above Spray Falls, I was pushed out into the Grant Creek Meadow where the trees fell away and Mt. Rainier opened up in front of me.
I was completely awestruck by this view, I've been around Mt. Rainier a good number of times, even on her slopes skiing the Muir Snowfield, but this one felt especially special. The early September fall had already started to deepen the colors into bronzy reds and oranges, and the marbled mix of rock and snow on the mountain was striking in the morning sun. I bounded through the meadow high on the vista until I emerged from a small batch of trees and stumbled into a black bear grazing only a dozen or so feet off the trail. Luckily he was content to eat the berries and roots in the field and seemed to pay no mind to me as I jogged on past him. Not two minutes later another bear ran out of a cluster of trees on the other side of the trail away from my "hey bear" shouts. The meadow was prolific and it set my heart leaping. I scurried up the steep climbers trail that exited the meadow for the saddle between Hessong and Pleasant eager to put some distance between myself and the bears.
Mt. Pleasant would be rather unremarkable if it weren't for its position next to the queen of Washingtonian mountains, only achieving and optimistic 200 ft of prominence but providing one of the best places I could image to drink in the splendor of Mt. Rainier's north slopes. The wind rose as I broke over the ridge engulfing me while I took in the panorama. Once I had gotten a few pictures, I nestled into the jumbled rocks that made up the summit and dug into my snacks.
Everything up to this point had been on marked trails, even if unmaintained. I could now look over the other side of Pleasant and see Fay Peak and the Mother Mountains, connected tenuously to my position by a meandering ridgeline. I had a decision to make now, do I attempt the ridge or take the more traditional path (descending into the east gully and climbing the saddle between East Fay and the First Mother). The ridgeline was covered in small brushy trees obscuring an obvious path, but didn't have any clear drop-offs or cliffs that I felt would stop me. Without a reason not to, I went for the ridge, it was the clear aesthetic choice and it drew me in easily.
Luckily, my guess had been well-founded, traversing to the mid-point where a small tooth of rock popped out of the trees was rather easy. I kept to the east side of the ridge where there was a tenuous path above the hundred or so foot exposure to the scree slopes below. A few handfuls of brush and roots got me through without much danger. Beyond this mid-point was a notch that had been obscured from the summit of Pleasant and looked like it might pose a bit of a challenge. Past it, the ridge turned to rock for a section, mostly jumbled chockstones and piles of talus that required some careful navigation and the use of both hands. Eventually, it put me at a small ravine crossing where I had to make a couple of 4th to 5th class down-climbing moves.
After climbing out of the ravine it was only a short hop up onto East Fay, the next peak in the chain I was building. I climbed up slightly west of the true summit of East Fay and found myself having to crawl along the tops of thick pines that blocked access to the peak from this direction. After sustaining a few new cuts, I gave in and decided I was close enough to call myself there.
Fay Peak had been an "optional" tag on the loop since it required doubling back significantly towards East Fay before the descent towards the First Mother. But I had been making such good progress that I figured, why not, and I ran along the ridge westwards towards Fay. Unfortunately, the ridge ended suddenly and if I wanted to make it to Fay, I would have to double back (even more) and cut much lower on the south side of the ridge or scale the steep drop that loomed in front of me. Given it hadn't been in my "official" plan anyway, and not wanting to burn all the time it would have taken, I decided to continue forward towards the First Mother instead.
The descent off East Fay was more treacherous than I expected. It required contouring along the steep scree slope on the north side of the ridge until I made it to some patchy heather on the far end that rendered the hillside stable enough to descend. I was glad to have brought my hiking poles, which so far hadn't gotten much use.
After the descent, I connected back up with a maintained trail that lead up to Knapsack Pass and towards the First Mother. My feet were ecstatic to have solid ground beneath them again, and I was able to pick up the pace tremendously after spending plenty of time cautiously placing my feet on the scree above.
While on the Fay ridgeline, I had seen a lone pair of hikers on the Knapsack Pass Trail who were also headed up the pass. The only real objective I knew about on this trail was the First Mother, I figured I might meet up with them at some point later on, but they were nowhere to be found on my ascent. Perhaps they knew something I didn't and headed over the pass into the Cataract Creek Valley. It was the only decent chance I had of seeing any other people until I made it back to the lake, and missing them was an eerie reminder of how alone I really was.
The trail steepened after I made it up to the pass and headed toward the formidable rock formation that was the First Mother. From the pass, it looked fairly unsurmountable without a heavy dose of scrambling, but there was supposedly an easy path around the west side that took you to the top without issue.
I was climbing up through a narrow meadow that opened up from the pass when I heard rustling in the trees next to me. I had seen a herd of mountain goats across the valley while on East Fay, and my mind immediately jumped to them, expecting a shaggy white friend or two to hustle past me. Instead, a bear ran directly onto the trail in front of me, stopping, and staring at me for a moment before continuing on up the trail with a steady gait.
He wasn't quite the same as the others I had seen at Grant Creek, not nearly as stout, and oddly colored. A messy, light brown fur clung to him like a long-overstayed winter coat. It took a while for him to leave the trail and I was afraid this would be the end of my day. I waited 10 or 15 minutes below him, tapping my poles together and shouting, before he crested the ridge opposite the First Mother. I had no desire to follow closely behind him, so I waited a bit more to ensure he was off of my path before continuing up, much slower this time, and with a constant stream of hoots and howls pouring out of me. I wouldn't be accidentally sneaking up on him again.
I crawled up towards my objective, staying a bit off trail, opposite the direction I last saw the bear. I clambered over some rocks and through a few trees before making it onto the summit trail that took me away from the bundle of trees he disappeared into. Thankfully, he didn't appear again and I made it up onto the First Mother, which provided an incredible view of the path I had taken so far. This was the first peak that actually felt like a summit, the south side dropping precipitously off into the valley below allowing me to dangle my feet and take in the panorama.
From here there was one more peak on my itinerary, Castle Peak, which involved another long off trail ridge traverse to access. Castle, in-fact, had no trails marked at all on any GPS map I could find that led to it. If I made it there I would have to bushwhack my way off and back down towards Mowich Lake. I was hopeful though, I had been making great time and it was still early in the morning. The clouds had been moving in steadily but had stayed high and brought no weather with them but cooler air.
I descended the First Mother and found my way onto the ridge that would take me further towards Castle Peak. It took a bit of route finding, and I had to meander around to the northwest, through some thicker trees and loose dirt, to get below the large outcropping above the saddle. After some bushwhacking, I made it onto the ridge proper which was rocky and required some quick 3rd class moves to traverse.
The rocky section was short lived and the ridge widened to a broad grassy knoll where a lively herd of mountain goats were grazing together. As soon as they caught sight of me, they picked up their pace moving north as if they were following the same path as I was. We ran together for a bit before they descended off of the ridge and down the steep scree into the valley below.
This was one of my favorite sections on the loop. The ground was soft, the ridge trended downhill, and either the goats or other like-minded hikers had beat a faint trail into the ridge. All of this together allowed me to run towards the rising Castle Peak at a pace I hadn't been able to manage since the start of the day. The bottom of the ridge butted up against the "south peak" of Castle which is a large rock monolith that blocks the path towards the true Castle Peak.
There was a thin trail that contoured beneath the South Castle rock formation which consisted of slightly loose dirt over a long sliding fall before trending upwards to the base of the rock wall staying above the steeper heather on the slope. I stayed as high as possible through here, high enough to keep my hand against the rock while I traversed.
After this, it opens back up into a ridgeline for a few hundred feet before you arrive at the rock wall that forms the start of Castle Peak mesa. You can access a scree ramp on the north side of the bluff which allows you to hike all the way on top of the peak.
The true "peak" on Castle is at the far east end of the formation, the top of Castle is open and flat with a beautiful meadow with some low trees that allow for some fun running with views on all sides. Once you make it to the far side, the trees fall away and you can hop out onto some nearly free floating rock columns with complete panoramic views to the east.
Despite the true summit being on the far end, it seemed like there was a slightly higher point on the other side, so I ran over to make sure I had tagged the "true" summit. From there you could peer over onto the ridgeline you used to access Castle from the high steep wall.
I turned back and retraced my steps, going back to the ridge before the South Castle Peak (marking the longest "out-and-back" of the day) and dropping down into the forest from the saddle notch. There wasn't any real trail here so, with the help of my poles, I made my way through low, but thick, shrubs down the slope and into the thicker forest above Mowich Lake. It wasn't long before I made it back onto the Wonderland Trail and got to run again, trending down toward and then around the lake, back to my starting point. By this point, the sun had returned to the sky and I was sweating as I ran past all the families and hiking groups who had made it out later in the morning to tag Tolmie or Ipsut Pass. I couldn't wait to dunk my head in the sure-to-be ice cold water of the lake.
Round-trip it was 8.93 miles and 4268 ft of ascent (and a mirroring amount of descent) and a ton of fun! It was fairly approachable as a run/scramble and ridgeline ascent. Only mild route finding required, and entirely at a small scale as the objectives are almost always visible. A decent amount of exposure but over easy terrain, with only a few spots of difficulty where you have to actually climb.
I think tackling this in the direction I went (counter-clockwise) is the best way to do this particular loop. Dealing with the ascent towards Castle would have been rough without any trail, and the ascent towards Pleasant was rather enjoyable. There are a couple of great additions you could add if you wanted to extend this loop, including hitting Fay Peak or Hessong rock, which are both easily accessible. You could even make it more of a climbing mission by adding in Mist Mountain east of the First Mother or the South Castle Peak (or the rest of the mother mountains in the range!)
The loop took me 5 hours and 41 minutes and could definitely be improved upon with better route finding (or the knowledge outlined here). Let me know if you have done this route before or take it on in the future, would love to learn about additions and improvements to the loop.
Here are some other resources including the GPX track and and other reports:
Thanks to Madeline (my wonderful wife) for editing and making sure I don't sound like an absolute baboon ❤️
18.11.2024 21:52The Mowich Ridgeline TraverseWelcome and howdy!
All my life I have been called to two things: the outdoors and writing. I grew up in the south-east of Texas where the the only mountains are little hills, the forests are full of poisonous plants, and the sun beats hard through the thick muggy air, but still I was drawn to the world. I was lucky though, to have a family that shared a sparkling eyed wonder to the same open spaces and high points I found so mesmerizing, so we traveled. Sometimes to the few local and state parks nearby to camp amongst the heat and the mosquitos, sometimes out of state to places that lit up my imagination.
Ever since those early years I had been longing to leave behind the flat warm spaces, and trade them in for rocky peaks and snow-filled winters. In 2021 I finally managed it and moved to Seattle, WA to start my own journey as a "mountain sports fanatic". I've grown a lot already in the few years I have spent here. I've gone from a mediocre three-days-a-year-if-i-was-lucky skier to a mildly competent one, having skied nearly a hundred days and getting turns off of both Mt. Baker and Mt. Adams in recent seasons. I've gone from a aspiring 40ft tall Austin crag climber to a traditional multi-pitch enjoyer, spending many long weekends clinging to the rocks around Index and Leavenworth. I've gone from an average vacation hiker to a trailrunner and backpacker who can finally reach distances long enough to escape the crowds. I'm a bit obsessive and wildly motivated to keep all of this progression up.
I've written for myself for a long time, and finally through these years of adventure feel competent enough to share a small piece of my world with you. I hope you enjoy what you find here. Maybe a bit of inspiration. Maybe a bit of introspection. Maybe just some pretty pictures. I'll be adding periodic trip reports as worthwhile treks come along, focusing mainly on obscure or novel trails that have few worlds to them yet. I'm aiming to put one out at least monthly, but forgive me if I slip. If these feel like your vibe, please feel free to add your email and you will get new posts sent directly to you. If that is too much you can also follow along on Instagram (@jaredk3nt) where I'll post them as well, along with photos from smaller adventures that don't get a full TR.
If you ever see me in the wild feel free to stop and say howdy 👋
