Skiing in July

There is nothing like summer in the mountains. Days are filled with hiking, kayaking, mountain biking and swimming in the lake. However, once every ten years or so the weather goes haywire and it snows into June. This has been one of those years with an unseasonably cold June and real snow falling and sticking to the ground. July came and the weather gods flipped the switch and now it is 80-90 degrees every day. Despite the warm-up, snow still coats the lower slopes of Mt Shasta down to about 7000 feet. This sets the stage for the rare opportunity for some late season back country skiing.

For those of you unfamiliar with the sport of back country skiing, it is a combination of Nordic and alpine skiing. Lightweight versions of alpine skis are coupled with bindings that allow the heel to lift for climbing like Nordic bindings and then lock down for the descent like alpine bindings. What makes the whole package work are climbing skins. Climbing skins are a synthetic material that are glued to the bottom of the skis with a special glue that does not affect the wax and can be reattached multiple times. The skins are constructed of polyester or nylon fibers with a directional nap that allows some forward glide but no backward slip. 200 years ago these "skins" were actually made from beaver pelts and strapped to skis. The modern equivalent is far superior (and doesn't cause the loss of any beavers). The skins and human muscle power take the place of a ski lift. This is called skinning up. At the top of the climb, the skins are removed for the ski down.

My stepson, Chris called me on a recent morning and asked me if I would like to skin-up Mt Shasta from the east side. The plan was to meet up with Forrest, (catchy name for a forest ranger but it is his real name) who is a climbing ranger on the mountain up at the rangers' base camp at 9200 feet. We would camp for the night and finish the climb in the morning. After some hesitation in consideration of the fact that I had done no skiing for the past two years due to our extensive travels, was in horrible shape, had been in LA for a month at sea level, and it was the hottest day of the year, I said I would at least climb to base camp and spend the night.

I spent the next few hours in a mad scramble to round up camping gear, food and ski gear. Chris picked me up around 3PM and we started the hour drive around the mountain. The trip was beautiful with 14,000 foot snow clad Mount Shasta shining brighter than the sun in the clear blue sky above. We sped through the forest out Highway 89 through the town of McCloud to turn onto Pilgrim Creek Rd. We continued for several miles to Military Pass Road where the pavement turned to the red volcanic dirt of the eastern slope of Mt Shasta. The road became progressively narrower and rougher as the tall firs strobed the late afternoon sun. The drive to the trail head was cut short by a snow bank blocking the road. In our shorts and t-shirts we struggled into our ski boots, hoisted our packs and shouldered our skis to hike up the road to the trail head. About a mile later, drenched in sweat, we reached the trail head. 200 yards up the trail there was finally enough snow to put our skis on. Thankfully, the blinding light and heat was soon tempered as a thick cloud cover slowly blotted out the blazing sun and we skinned up the slope in relative comfort. After about an hour of slogging I could swear I saw a tent about a mile off. Already exhausted, my energy was renewed and I pushed on as Chris drew away from me. I continued on alone enjoying the solitude and the view up the slope to the summit still 6000 feet above. My reverie was only interupted by the labored sound of my breathing. A cool breeze sprang up as I passed into the shadow of a butte that loomed over the trail to the west. My overheated body cooled rapidly and I pushed on to get back into the light of the sun that had now reappeared from behind the clouds.

Chris threads his way through trees and bare patches

After what seemed to be an interminable climb, I dragged into camp to be greeted by Chris and Forrest . Feeling all of my 60 years, I shrugged out of my pack. Even though I was exhausted I quickly started to set up my tent because the sun was dropping behind the snowy ridge above camp, the wind was picking up, and the air temp was dropping rapidly. I scuffed out a level spot for my tent and, with Chris' help, we had it up in no time.

Chris and Forrest at Base Camp-Elevation 9200'

Now starving, I quickly threw together a dinner of dehydrated noodles and canned tuna. (Don't knock it until you have tried it.) Seated in the shelter of sun warmed rocks I gobbled down my dinner while I was treated to a light show over Ash Creek Butte to the east.

Rainbow over Ash Creek Butte

Sunset over Ash Creek Butte

Forrest and Richard at Base Camp

Sunset over Mount Shasta

The clouds that had shaded our climb were now dropping their load of rain over the butte with a rainbow rising out of the collapsed cauldera of the peak. As the sun slowly sank the shadow of Mt Shasta cast a giant pyramid on the clouds and landscape below. The clouds burst into flaming oranges, pinks and reds as I surveyed the mountain panorama. I spun around to see the peak of Mt Shasta turn a burgundy hue in the fading light. I checked the clock on my cell phone to find it was just after nine o'clock. This seemed liked a respectable hour to call it a night. Motivated by exhaustion and the rapidly cooling air I bid Chris and Forrest good night. I crawled into my tent and snuggled into my sleeping bag. With my down jacket for a pillow, I was looking forward to a good night's sleep.

I never sleep well at altitude and woke a few hours later to answer a call of nature. I stepped out of the tent into the clear moonless night. At first I thought my blurry eyes were obscuring the stars but then I realized that it was the sky that was blurry. The stars overhead were shrouded in an ethereal milky cloak. As I came more fully awake, I felt that I was in space floating through the Milky Way. In my field of vision, I saw more stars than I ever imagined possible. The crystal clarity of the thin air made me feel like I could reach out and touch the stars. Shivering in the cool night air, I reluctantly crawled back into my tent to await the dawn and hopefully get a little more sleep.

It seemed like I had barely closed my eyes when the light of a new day woke me. I unzipped my tent just in time to see the sun pop up over Ash Creek Butte. Still in my bag, I turned my head to see Mt Shasta glowing golden in the early morning light. I lay there for a few minutes taking in the view. I dragged myself outside as Chris and Forrest did the same from their tent. Forrest immediately started packing for the summit climb. He suggested I might want to climb to the next bench for a view of Hotlum Glacier. After being assured it was not much of a climb, I decided my tired old body could probably climb a bit more. I had always been intrigued by this glacier and it seemed a shame to pass up an opportunity to check it out. After quickly downing some cereal, Chris and Forrest, headed up the mountain. I took a slightly different route to the glacier.

Sunrise over Ash Creek Butte

The climb was a little longer and steeper than Forrest had suggested (thanks Forrest) but it felt good to stretch out the muscles that had tightened up from the climb the day before. In shorts and t-shirt I climbed a steep, broad snowfield traversing back and forth. The heat of the morning sun reflecting off the snow soon had me dripping in sweat. The ever increasing altitude robbed my body of precious oxygen and I was reduced to my old climbing mantra of counting steps. After forty steps, I would allow myself a breather, a quick sip of water and repeat. As I neared the bench which was about 1000 feet above base camp I started to hear what I thought was running water. On a southward traverse I spotted a little spring popping out of a rock island in the snow. The coursing water flashed in the sun providing a merry little song that seemed to urge me on. When I topped the bench, I was confronted by a massive wall of basalt blocks. As I looked up at the dark edifice the sound of falling rock made me reflect on the death of a woman a few days ago on the other side of the mountain. She was killed by a watermelon sized rock tumbling down from just such a wall. Sobered I pushed on now very alert for any rocks whizzing my way. I contoured north around the mountain towards the glacier. The slope was gentle and softened by the sun. About half a mile away I noted some small seracs (blocks of ice) that indicated I was nearing the glacier. As I neared the edge of the rock wall the character of the rock turned to rubble. Then I realized that what I thought was rock was the dirty face of the glacier. Soon I started to see the phantasmagoric shapes of ice towers that formed the foot of the glacier. These seracs appeared ready to tumble as they leaned down the slope . After gaining the foot of the glacier, and recharging my exhausted body with a Clif bar, I reluctantly pointed my skis down the hill. I was back to camp in about five minutes.

Seracs on Hotlum Glacier

By now I was totally spent. The combination of the climb, the heat, and lack of sleep had taken its toll on me. I attempted to nap but the flies were obnoxious and it was too hot in the tent so I packed up and headed down to the truck. The ski down from camp was difficult with sun cupped snow mixed in between the trees. After several falls and some up close and personal encounters with a few trees, I took off my skis resolved to walk the rest of the way. As it turned out I was only a few hundred yards from the trailhead and then another half mile overland back to the truck.

When I arrived at the truck I discovered that a water bottle had pulled open the pocket on the back of the pack that contained my cell phone, camera, glasses, etc. I raced back up the hill (which is not easy to do in ski boots) to find everything but my camera. So now you are probably thinking where did the pictures come from? The next day, Deb and I went back to try to find the camera but with no success. She suggested we leave a note on the cars at the trailhead. Sure enough that evening a fellow called from Bend, Oregon to say he had found the camera and would mail it back. So I hope you enjoy the pictures; I certainly am.