ALONE on STEEL CLIFF

by
Cameron McPherson Smith
January 1997
With some photos from Bill Blumberg's Cascade Volcano Page, one of my own photos (the two axes) and a sketch from my climbing journal: The Terrible Traverse

December, 19, 1996. I'm ski-trudging up the standard hike-route on Mt. Hood, back here in Oregon after being defeated by avalanche conditions on Sky Pilot, up in British Columbia, just four days ago. McRee and I retreated from mind-boggling piles of snow at the base of the Pilot - twelve feet of powder and sugar dumped by the outrageous coastal storms - skiing back down to my second-hand Jeep Wagoneer to roar down the logging road for our date with a beer at the Squamish Brew Pub. Once there we lazed in front of the fireplace, tipping back our Ed Cooper pints and occasionally peering out the window to mark the progress of two climbers on Squamish Chief. It was drizzling, and getting dark, and the two colored dots were moving slowly...McRee and I exchanged knowing glances, thinking, 'Those guys are having an Epic.'. At the time I had no idea that the leader was Lee Purvis, who Iıd just met and climbed with at the rock gym a few weeks previously...The fire warmed us from our two-day chill, which had set in with a vengeance that morning as weıd crawled from our bivv-cave and spent half an hour ramming our arms and legs into shell gear frozen stiff as plywood.

Back to Mount Hood...my old friend. This was my thirty-fifth trip to the mountain, and the crusty snow beneath my skis was familiar, a known quantity; I knew the south side trudge route as well, having done it at least six times, and I moved upwards on auto-pilot. A hundred meters behind and below me, Scott Elmendorf was making his way up, also on ski. I stopped to wait for him, leaning on my ski poles and gazing across space at the glow of Portland to the west, below an expanse of inky sky shot with stars and the milky way gushing across the dome above. The pre-dawn sky was always a spectacular sight up here, at 7,000 feet, if it were not obscured by cloud...

Within fifteen minutes, plans were radically changed. Scott was horribly out of shape; he decided to go down to the truck and sleep. I gave him my skis, borrowed his pair of technical axes and waved to him as I set off Eastwards; 'Should take me about six hours to the summit. Later on! Get some sleep, man!'. Disgusted with himself and resolving to start an exercise programme, Scott dejectedly started downwards, towards the lights of Timberline Lodge. I knew the self-hatred he must feel at the moment; but I had work to do, and I deliberately expelled his negative vibes from my mind. My objective had turned from a boring and standard ascent of the south route to a solo of the Steel Cliff. Though I like the efficiency of skis, I felt good taking them off and once again trusting only to my own two feet. I put on my Grivel 2F crampons, switched on my headlamp, mentally estimated the distance to the White River Glacier gully, and started off towards it, heading roughly East-North-East across the expanse of ice and snow.

Hiking towards my mental landmark, I considered the climb to come. This was to be a special adventure. Four years before I had attempted to climb Steel Cliff, in winter, with my partner Chiu Liang Kuo. Stupidly, we were caught in a violent storm, without bivvy gear, wearing only summer long-johns and shell gear (you can read about that adventure here). I sustained frostbite to one fingertip and realized I was becoming hypothermic as 60-mile-per-hour winds nearly pulled us clean off the ice. Chiu had gone into a sort of zombie-state, his core temperature probably in the critical range; he tells of hallucinating as he down-climbed the final pitch. It was a narrow scrape, ironically just miles from a road and the lodge, where revelers were doubtless having a merry dinner and toasting each other with spiced wines by candlelight, whilst we were undergoing full-body shivering and wondering whether we were going to freeze to death.

In a way, I was out to settle the score...but I fought not to be sucked in by this ridiculous notion; there was nothing to settle. That, I knew, was a fatal mentality for the soloist. Deep down, I operated on the knowledge that the cliff was simply there, it cared nothing for me or anything else, that I was not competing with it on any level. Either I could ascend it without falling, or I could not. Still, however, nagging at my mind, continually, there remained the hint that I was going to climb this route because I wanted a sort of Œrevengeı. So, with my contradictory feelings battling one another, I trudged onwards and upwards, an average human concoction of nervous energy, many questions and precious few answers...

Several hours of hiking brought me to the base of Steel Cliff, where I stopoped for a brief rest and to organize my gear. Dawn was just breaking, and hulking over me was a strange, steep landscape of rippled rime ice and sugary snow, glowing faintly pink against the electrified clarity of the opal sky - a strange and enchanting sight. On the way up I had occasionally looked over the cliff; I had picked a line that looked reasonable. I would begin by ascending a low-angle apron to the first steep band, where I would tackle a sort of bottle-neck which may serve as a chimney. This led to a large and easy-looking ramp which led up and right, below enormous mushrooming ice towers, to a steep-looking exit pitch which appeared to lead to the summit ridge. Simple. Definitely not the more difficult line Chiu and I had climbed years ago, but here I was alone, and under no illusions regarding my ability. This was to be primarily easy, with two challenging spots. Fine with me.

I hefted my tools -- my walking-axe in one hand and a technical hammer in the other -- and started off with a rightwards ascending traverse, up the apron. I occasinally daggered my picks, and occasionally kicked a step here and there, but it was all easy and enjoyable and before I knew it, I was several hundred feet above my resting point. The ice and snow dropped away from my boots gracefully; not too steep to climb alone, but far too steep to hope for self-arrest. I scanned the ice above but, despite the steeper terrain immediately above, I couldnıt see the bottle-neck. I continued on, traversing right, seeking a weakness in the headwall bulging above...

Ten minutes later I was half way up the ice chimney. I'd found it, 'just around the corner' (as always!), and Iıd quickly made my way upwards, stemming with my crampons biting in well on either side of the chimney and my picks hacking in just well enough for balance, but not secure enough, in the bubbly, unstable rime ice, for bearing weight. Looking down between my stemmed legs, I saw my faint tracks in the apron, disappearing around the corner. What was I doing looking down? I wondered for a moment...I seemed to have stopped climbing...this was odd; I normally have a strict code to keep moving...I looked up, somehow detached from my mind, seeing myself there in the chimney, my red suit like a spot of blood on a white tablecloth...Above, the chimney widened and bulged -- stemming was out. So, thatıs why Iıd stopped and, I suppose, to avoid the terrain above, looked down below me. Well. It was time to regain control of my mind. I considered the moves above. I convinced myself that I could surmount the bulge by a strange combination of face-climbing, stemming the narrowest section, and using my axes, shafts hammered in the rime, as hand-holds. So be it. Below was air, ice and a fatal fall should I come off.

OK. I steadied myself in the chimney, feet planted wide and firm. I unclipped the third ice axe from my harness, setting the spike to a bulge of rime like setting a giant piton in a crack, and struck a blow with my ice hammer ...the spike and half the shaft instantly punched through the initial film of water ice and sank deep into the sugary snow beneath. Another hammer-blow and the pick and adze were flush with the ice. Worldıs largest piton, indeed. I let the hammer dangle from my right wrist and grabbed the head of the axe like a giant chickenhead. With my legs stemmed and crouched, I pushed up, also pulling on the aze, and scabbering around to the left, using my walking axe like a very long techincal tool. I pushed up a bit more with my legs, and when they were extended, I locked my knees, jabbed my walking axe into the snow like a matador, and stopped for a moment to relax and consider the move. I was panting; not because it was a strnuous move, but because it had been so delicate that Iıd inadvertently held my breath...It had been unusual, but it had worked. I looked up. Another forty feet. Down; no, best not to look down...I started up...'Always consider the consequence of error.', my Dad had told me years ago...Now, as I craftily made my way up the ice chimney, the words were at their most potent.

I climbed the ice chimney as if I were crawling through a minefield. I moved with great care. The pitch drew on my composure, but I rationalized that I could reverse the moves if need be. This was no ordinary ice solo, because this was not ordinary ice...this was a special variety, formed of freezing mist, which was alternately -- and unpredictably -- either poor or horrendous. What I'd have given for a single, decent placement! But, no, each move required me to carefully consider the distribution of weight between my four points of contact. On the exit move, as usual, I used the greatest caution, this time hammering my 80-cm walking axe entirely into the lower-angle terrain above before yarding up on it with both hands, my boots front-pointing at the rotten ice.

And then I was up. Just like that, the ice chimney, the first technical diofficulty, disposed of. I felt good as I peered over the edge and looked down at my route. I backed away carefully and turned to face the terrain above. It was not clear where to go next. I had exited at the base of an overhanging rime pinnacle; not my idea of a decent solo pitch. To the left, just fifty feet away, the cliff dropped off to the White River Glacier. To the right, some steep but manageable terrain, leading upwards and right, to what might be a cleft...which might lead to the Ramp? Come to think of it, where was the Ramp? I couldnıt tell. I had a sense that it was above me, and left. Options; down the ice chimney, or up and right. I did not want to down-climb the chimney, and I had not brought a rappel rope...I holstered one ice axe and returned to dagger-mode, ascending and traversing right on terrain which was occasionally steep or moderate. It was odd...now that I could not see the apron below, could not see where I had come up, it was more frightening...I knew that if I fell, I would hit the ledge where I had exited, bounce, and then hurtle down the face, outside the ice chimney. No, not good to think about. I focused on the next move, the next move and the next move, and steadily moved upwards.

Eventually I ran out of rightward-ascending terrain. I reached a sort of ridge-top, beneath a wall of steep rime that blotted out much of the sky above. I moved up the the very base of this wall and huddled beneath it, planting my axes, clipping to them and taking a moment to relax. Fifteen minutes of work had brought me up quite a distance. I could no longer see the ice chimney or the ledge...Just billowing hummocks of rime, in demented proportions, and steep gullies...No falling here, buck-o. I felt apprehensive for the first time, but I kept to the task at hand in order to occupy my mind. To my right, the East face dropped away, an expanse of snow now glaring white with the sun. To my left a ramp led downwards. I packed my water bottle and headed down and left, facing outward but being careful, so careful...a single crampon snagging on my leg would spell the ultimate disaster.

The Ramp. I reached it after several minutes, suddenly coming around a corner of rime to find the football-field-sized Ramp tilting up and rightwards...I was elated, happy with my work so far. I'd found the Ramp. I hadn't fallen. Things were going well. The Ramp was low-angle, perhaps 40-45 degrees, and was composed of rime, rock and snow. I moved up this section quickly and easily. A wind had come up now, out of the north-east, and as this curled over the ridge-top above me it whirled down against me, freezing my fingers through their thin liner gloves, which were already soaked. I just kept moving, knowing that it was here that I should move quickly; I could worry about comfort later, right now it was time to take advantage of an easy section of the climb. I hiked upwards and onwards.

Eventually I came to the 'exit pitch'. This had looked steep from below, but I step-kicked up through the exit and onto the ridge-top with ease. The ridge-top...One moment, I had been on the ramp, where I could have easily stopped a fall...The next, on the ridge, I was in the ultimate danger, where a strong gust of wind could nudge me either over the West or East side...It would have been nice to have a partner here. A hundred meters ahead there was a wide saddle. I waited for the wind to die off, then made a rapid but careful crossing of the narrow section, glancing occasionally down left and right. I held my arms out, with axes extended, like a tight-rope walker...I reached the saddle and dropped to my knees in thanks, or gratitude to the wind, or something, and closed my eyes and considered what I had just pulled off...

I stood up. I looked up the ridge. I was shocked. Iıd serously underestimated its length. There were also bloated rime towers directly ahead of me that I had not anticipated. To skirt them to the left was impossible; they formed part of the crater rim, and were too steep and complex for me to solo. To the right, however, I could follow the Eastern slope, part of the Wy-East route, to the final rime tower. Off I went.

Approaching the final tower I found the wind increasing and thin cloud moving quickly past. I felt an urgency to move quickly. I reigned in my scattering thoughts, however. I stopped for a moment, beside a large rock ourcrop, to put on my spare gloves. I have rarely taken any spare items on a climb, but this time I had brought a pair of woolen gloves in reserve. As my hands warmed, and I put on my shell gloves, I suddenly felt a sickening wave of nausea...what the hell? I choked for a moment, feeling as I were about to throw up. Altitude? Never had I had a problem on Mount Hood. I was completely disoriented by this sudden and absolutely unexpected sensation...this was a bad place for unknown elements to arise, and I was immediately apprehensive, almost panicked. I stood for a moment, thinking furiously, breathing deeply...I noticed a wisp of steam, rising past my face like a ghost...I looked down...more steam, emenating from the black moat between the snow and the rock I was leaning against. Jesus! I now recognized the reek of sulphur...I had had no idea that the volcanic vents were active here, on the ridge! Another gust of steam clouded my lungs. I moved awkwardly away, determined not to pass out here, on the ridge, so close to the top! I recalled the story of the climber whoıd died in steam vents on the south side route...No way, no way was I going to check out up here! I moved away, but, stupildy, towards a rock, and I plunged through a moat, up to my thigh in slurpee-like snow, melted and rotten from steam. Now I did panic for a second, and I thrashed to get out...I was determined not to fall deeper into the moat, where it would be impossible to climb out, and choke on the fumes...

And I did get out, and I made my way to the base of the tower, and I was ready to get to the summit. I breathed deeply and tried to put the fumes out of my mind. I sucked back a packet of 'GU', 100 calories...instant lift...hey, if it's good enough for Marc Twight...I took a photo of the terrain ahead, and tried to discern a route. To the left, again, the crater wall, dropping off. Directly ahead, the final rime tower, a grotesque but fantastic, psychedelic formation of ropy ice and glistening snowy patches...Crazy. I was not going to solo that, however. To the right of the tower, an improbable, steep snow slope, but I could not see where it led. I supposed it led to the summit ridge.

The steep snow slope was on the East face. The final rime tower stood above it like a leering gargoyle, threatening to drop a ton of ice...I considered my position. I did not want to retreat the way Iıd come; with no rope for rappeling, I did not want to tackle the occasional steep sections, in particular the ice chimney. I could retreat on the Wy-East route...but that would be defeat! My mind now played tricks...What was I doing here? Why risk it all on this last steep slope, when you could go home, down the Wy-East route? I moved left and peered over the steep wall which dropped away to the White River Glacier. NO. I'm not going down there. Back? Down the Wy-East? NO. I donıt want to do that. What, then? Up this suicide slope? Look at it...itıs 80 degrees...almost vertical...Feel it, man! That is sugary, powdery snow! Who knows how itıs even holding on right now!?! With my axes buried to the hilt, I tentatively kick one boot into the slope and watch as a clump of snow skitter swiftly down and away into the rock towers of the Black Spider, on the East face. Not only would a self-arrest be impossible (a joke, more like it!), but if you come off, most likely this whole slope is going to go with you for a 2000-foot thrash, straight down, baby! This is it, then. Ahhhhhh....what do I do...

After ten minutes of worry, I committed and found myself on one of the most dangerous pitches Iıve ever climbed. I simply wanted to climb the pitch, finsh my ascent. I simply decided, 'I donıt care.' and moved onto the face. Vertical post-holing. Swimming upwards in deep snow. How else can I describe it? I was fifty feet across, and fifty feet up, the slope. Two hundred feet up and right, I could see the summit ridge. Two hundred feet...I buried my axes and made the next move. If the slope gave way now, there would be no dramatic music, no cameras whirring, just my puny body tumbling down the East Face in a whirl of cold white; I would disappear and be buried two thousand feet below where I now was perched. The end. THE END. I moved up with utmost care, gingerly sliding my axes into the steep wall of snow. One hundred feet. Each moment I expected to feel the sickening sensation of a sudden drop. My boots plowed aimlessly downwards. My axe shafts tilted out of the snow, and I instantly learned to mistrust them. At each move I expected the avalanche; the end of it all. Nothing. I reached the easier ridge. I carefully moved up and onto a snow dome. I took off my pack, clipped it to my axe, and sat back to look down at the steep trench I had just forged through that horrendous slope.

I have climbed for 12 years, now, and in that time I have climbed some scary and dangerous pitches; this one, though, takes the cake. Perhaps because I was alone, the terror was amplified. I donıt know. Perhaps because I made what, in retrospect, I half-feel was a stupid decision...to plow on thorough extremely dangerous terrain...Perhaps because I climbed the pitch because I felt, for a moment, that I did not care whether I was going to die or not. I distinctly remember thinking, 'To hell with it.' just before I got on the pitch, and thinking, 'Whatever...', in the middle of the pitch, when I was most afraid. Was this simply a subconscious way to calm my nerves? Was it courage, or stupidity, that brought me though? Of course the two are easily confused...I'm confused, even now, weeks later...Why did I do it? I'm quite sure that, with a partner present, I'd have suggested a different route. So why did I decide to tackle this apparent suicide slope when I was alone? Iım not suicidal; on balance, I think it works out that I was simply sick of bailing off of routes, and my desires ran wild, independent of my rationale, and took me along. That's it, I think. It boils down to passion, lust. I wanted to climb the pitch. I climbed it, knowing that I could easily be killed. Though that sounds like a tidy answer, it leaves many questions; in fct, it is not much of an explanation at all...

Whatever. I turned and hiked to the summit. At 11,239 feet, I surveyed the many peaks around me. I crawled to the lip and had a look, down at the North Face. Six attempts to climb it, over the years, had been foiled by various factors. Now, I felt, I would solo it. I would come back next week and solo the North Face.

Down, down, down; I passed through the 'Pearly Gates' and hiked down the Hogsback. The bergschrund was totally filled with snow. I jogged down to the ski lift, then hiked to the car. When my feet hit the pavement, I grinned wide...There was Scott, waiting for me at the car...

A few days later I packed for the North Face, changed my mind, decided to solo the Yocum Ridge, and turned on the TV to find the most discouraging weather report imaginable. For the next two weeks I waited, in Portland, for good conditions, a window of any sort; but, nothing. The window had closed. Right up till the New Year, when I drove out of Portland, it rained, snowed, hailed and flooded. The time to climb had come and gone; now it was time to go back up to Vancouver, back to school, back to work; back to The Other World.
Here are some photos of the area near my route. These photos are NOT mine, they are from Bill Blumberg's Cascade Volcano Page, which is a nice site, indeed. When I have time I will scan in some photos I took on the route (if they came out!).