The Cassin Ridge

 

Static crackled from the FRS radio, distorting the female voice rattling off a series of temperatures and wind speeds. “Tonight, 30 below, 45 to 55 winds, cloudy. Tomorrow, 25 below, 60 winds, cloudy…” A tight group of unwashed, unshaven men leaned in close, straining to pick out a single optimistic detail. I’d been hunkered down at 14,000 feet on the flanks of Denali for over 2 weeks, waiting for a break in the tumultuous springtime weather. Each time a high pressure system appeared on the forecast, it slowly disintegrated as it drew near. After another series of grim temperatures and high winds, the radio fell silent.

I breathed a groan of disappointment. On paper, my trip had already been a success: I had lugged 140 pounds of gear up 7,000 vertical feet, dug in a base camp, skied stormy powder almost every day, and even summited the peak via the non-technical West Buttress route. However, none of these were what brought me to Denali, and I was antsy with the pull of an unfinished goal coupled with a quickly winding down timeline.

I came to Alaska with the dream of climbing the Cassin Ridge. This iconic route ascends over 8,000 feet of steep ice, rock, and snow, and its striking line had infiltrated my psyche and lodged itself deep in my heart. I had to know what it would feel like to be in the middle of that route, perched on of one of the largest, highest faces in North America, with the only escape continuing up into the sky.

My lofty alpine dreams were currently being pulverized by the perpetual high winds and snowfall that plagued the mountain all spring. Being my first time in the Alaska range, I had nothing to compare it to, but a seasoned alpine veteran called it the worst spring season he’d ever seen in the Range. Frankly, this came as no surprise.

Days later, we watched in disappointed disbelief as yet another window appeared on the forecast, then slowly shrank. It went from 4 perfect days, to 2 days at best, bookended by high winds and with snow squalls overnight. I sat down with my partner for the route, Emanuel, to rehash a conversation we’d had daily for our entire stay at 14-camp.

We countered back and forth, waffling between the desire to climb the route and the fear of discomfort, frostbite, and worse. Eventually, he made the call- the window was too short. I nodded, then shuffled back to my tent.

That night, I scoured the route description for the thousandth time, heart racing. I knew there was another option, a way that I could climb the route in the short window, one that would certainly provide a truly committing and immersive experience. It was an idea that I had wrestled with and then dismissed dozens of times in the months leading up to the trip. I had written it off as too reckless. This was my first time in the Alaska range, and what I had in mind was reserved for only the most seasoned alpine crushers- Mugs Stump, Colin Haley, Chantel Astorga. My idols, climbers with a lifetime of experience in these mountains. But as I gazed at the photos of the route, and then up at the mountain looming above, I knew- I was going to solo the Cassin Ridge, in a single push.

The next day dawned sunny and bright, but plumes of spindrift rocketing off the mountain above clearly displayed the powerful winds aloft. Occasional gusts ripped through camp, blowing snow into open tents and jackets. I simmered in the cook tent, alternating between eating and drinking all I could hold and meditating on the journey ahead. The nervous excitement before a big solo was a familiar feeling, but today it was more intense than I had ever felt before. My stomach did flips as my arms and head crackled with electricity. I knew the feeling I had was the right one- there was no dread or reluctance, just pure restrained energy.

By mid afternoon it had reached a breaking point. I grabbed my pack, which had been meticulously packed and repacked several times throughout the morning, clicked into skis, and quickly skinned away from camp. It was 4:15 PM.

Getting to the base of the route is one of the Cassin’s major challenges. Several options exist, none without hazard from crevasses below and seracs overhead. I had chosen to climb to the west rib cutoff, then ski down the “Seattle Ramp”. This was the most direct option, and a route that other soloists had recently opted for. However, it requires navigating down a chaotic, angry jumble of crevasses and snow bridges. I hoped that skis would make for a safer and faster descent to the base of the route, and was willing to carry them up the climb for this added security.

After climbing for an hour, I clicked into my skis at the cutoff and began my descent. Conditions were tricky, with slick blue ice under only a couple inches of snow, but improved as I descended. Fortunately, two parties ahead of me had established a clear path to follow. Aside from the occasional crevasse hop and one patch of ice where I had to take my skis off for a short traverse, the descent went well. The crux was at the bottom, where I scraped my way down 50 degree ice with a thin cover of refrozen snow, triggered a small slide, then dropped a double ‘schrund into a high speed outrun. I zipped across the small cirque to the base of the route, then glanced back at my track and chuckled.

After a few moments to relax, I shifted my attention to the first section of the route- the Japanese Couloir. 1000’ of beautiful water ice stretched above me, glistening in the late afternoon sun. One party was at its start, another near the top. I switched to crampons, got out my tools, and strapped my skis and poles to my pack. I took deep and steady breaths to center myself.

After talking briefly with the team at the base of the couloir, who generously agreed to let me pass, I cast off up the steep ice, full of pent up energy. As the couloir narrowed, a river of spindrift poured down on me. Basking in the warm evening sun, I relished the frozen shower as I continued upward, hardly slowing for the vertical crux that dripped with perfect, soft ice. In just over an hour, I was at the top of the couloir, grinning from ear to ear. I was committed now, and totally psyched.

As the light waned to dusky Alaskan night, I launched into the first mixed section. It took several minutes of careful prodding and scratching, but eventually I committed to a sequence that felt secure, then continued slowly upwards in tricky snow-on-rock conditions.

Shortly, I reached the Cowboy Arete, a wild and exposed knife edge which continuously alternated between rotten ice and deep, soft snow. The climbing was still slow and insecure, as I dug through snow and ice for decent sticks. Finally, around midnight, I plopped down on the first flat spot on top of the ridge and fired up my stove. As I melted snow, I took stock of my situation- balanced on a tiny snow ledge, with a jumble of rugged, glacier-draped ridges sprawling before me. A thunder of serac fall echoed below. Above, the route vanished into gloomy clouds. It began to snow softly. Despite the darkness, the gathering clouds, and my wild position, I felt calm and content. I slowly sipped a steaming pot of soup.

An arctic blast of wind got me moving again. Over the next bulge in the ridge, I passed a tent, where Austin and Chris were still awake, having just recently arrived. We chatted briefly, and I thanked them for the booter up the cowboy Arete and continued on. After a short stretch of easy climbing, I reached the crux of the route- the overhanging bergschrund of the Hanging Glacier. I surveyed the looming wall of broken, electric blue ice, searching for a weakness. There was none.

After wasting precious time traversing back and forth, I eventually settled on ascending a section near the middle, 30 feet tall and gently overhanging the whole way. As I took stock of the first moves, I regretted not bringing a short tag line to haul my skis up. Fortunately, ice climbing has the added bonus of effectively being aid climbing- I pulled on, made a few very physical moves before getting a deep stick and clipping into my tool. After dangling for a few minutes, I repeated the process, eventually crawling over the lip and onto easier terrain above. Now, if not before, I was truly committed to going to the top- downclimbing that section, without simply throwing my pack off the mountain, would have been very challenging.

I continued up, negotiating deep snow, another small ‘schrund, and entering the “First Rock Band.” The clouds enveloped me as snow continued to drift down through the deep blue glow of the Arctic night. Small sluffs trickled down over me as I dug my way upward. I entered a deeply meditative state as I moved up the mountain, weaving along ribbons of ice between behemoth buttresses that loomed out of the gloomy sky above. The route finding felt natural, and I never hesitated or doubted a choice as I worked upward.

Nearly unaware that any time or distance had passed, I emerged at the top of the rock band and into the brilliant morning sun. I perched on a ledge as I brewed cup after cup of hot chocolate, content to bask in the sun and survey the spectacular scene as the rising sun scattered the fog. Thousands of feet below, the tips of countless snowy peaks emerged above a sea of low clouds.

After a long rest, I started up the steep, intimidating “Second Rock Band.” This was certainly the most sustained section of the route, following a steep rock gully for hundreds of feet. Several cruxes gave me pause, but each time, enough searching and digging out snow and rotten ice revealed a solution. I methodically continued as precious daylight and warmth slid by far too easily.

As I neared the top of the final technical obstacle, a steep cliff band, I was stopped in my tracks. My skis were pinned against an overhanging bulge. I climbed down a few feet then tried again, to no avail. My position was far too precarious to remove my pack. After a few more minutes of carefully attempting to pull over the bulge, I resigned myself to a long downclimb. Eventually, I found an effective passage, but not without spending another hour traversing and searching for it. With heavy arms and tired legs, I pulled myself up the last few moves and onto the large, snowy bench that signified the end of the technical climbing, with a sigh of joy and relief.

Unfortunately, the joy was quickly replaced with concern. It was already 5 PM. I had spent the entire day negotiating the sustained, challenging, snow-covered climbing of the second rock band. I had been on the move for over 24 hours, and still had nearly 4,000 feet of high-altitude postholing ahead of me. It was going to be a late, cold, and painful night.

After a short snack and water break, I leaned into the hill and began trudging upward. Each step punched through a thin crust, then sank deep in the soft snow below, sucking my energy and preventing any semblance of upward momentum. It was a true, utter slog. I fought my way up, altitude and fatigue making each movement a battle. By the time I reached 18,000 feet, I was on the verge of defeat. I considered the possibility of digging a snow cave and settling in for the night, but with no sleeping bag, very little food, and a dwindling supply of fuel, that was a grim premise indeed. I debated, stuck in my tracks, as the wind steadily increased.

In a moment of weakness, I started down, searching for a sheltered place, still agonizing about what to do. My answer came in the form of Austin and Chris rounding a buttress below. I breathed a sigh of relief- they were looking strong and stoked, and came charging up my bootpack to meet me. We exchanged a few encouraging words, then I happily let them take over the brutal work of slogging upwards, shuffling into file behind them. I followed them up into the glowing twilight.

The evening was beautiful, the clouds below glowing orange, a sea of fire stretching to the horizon. Sadly, inevitably, the light faded, giving way to a gathering wind, chilling me to the bone. As I stopped to warm my hands and feet, Austin and Chris disappeared into the night above.

Sleep deprivation fogged my brain as I trudged ever upward. I continuously alternated between nodding off, then snapping awake in a jolt of fear and anxiety. I knew I was close to the top, but I was also close to the edge. Every few minutes, I aggressively wiggled my fingers and toes to make sure they still had feeling, and breathed a sigh of relief each time they responded. Time and distance lost meaning, all that existed was the wind, fatigue, and the constant upwards pull.

As I topped out Kahiltna Horn at 20,100’, the Arctic wind intensified even more. Already beyond the limit of what I was comfortable with, I didn’t even consider walking the couple minutes over to the true summit- I simply clicked into my skis and descended as quickly as possible, desperate for warmth, air, and sleep.

The ski down was a dream. The midnight sun burned bright red on the horizon. Rocks morphed into people, cars, and mysterious beasts on the edges of my vision. I was a passenger in my own body, watching my skis turn themselves down the wind sculpted, frozen snow. I was grateful for the many days on skis in the previous months- my body knew what to do, and took charge as my conscious mind faltered. Within seconds, or maybe days, or years, I was sliding past the silent tents at 17 camp and into Rescue Gully. The top had been scraped to ice, but my legs were far too fatigued to make hop turns anyway. I scraped down, stopping often. The steep chute gave way to gentler slopes, and I arced my way ever down, down. The snow was deep and crusty, challenging conditions, and all I could manage was a few massive, traversing turns at a time before flopping into the snow. I endlessly repeated this process, the colorful specs of nylon below me slowly growing larger.

In the distance, Sultana burst into color with the morning sun, its dazzling beauty defying all logic. I was totally content to sink into the snow and watch her come to life. I never thought I’d find enlightenment in the mountains. But for a moment, laying there in the snow, head buzzing with altitude and fatigue, it seemed that I was on the verge.

P.S.

This climb was a wonderful challenge that I will remember for the rest of my life. The technical climbing was fantastic, and I felt solid as I worked through each of the cruxes. Higher on the route, far above the technical climbing, my control began to slip, as sleep deprivation dangerously mixed with very cold conditions. It was a humbling experience.

Summits are significant because they represent an ability to do more than the mountain requires. By reaching the top, you show that you are capable of everything the climb demands, and more. The fact that I didn’t even consider re-visiting the summit tells me that I was at my mental limit- getting down and out of the cold was my only thought. It’s easy to feel a stab of regret as I reflect on that moments, but from a broader view, I got down in one piece, without frostbite, and climbed 99% of the route. More importantly, I pushed myself hard, and made solid decisions in challenging situations. I am content.