The Southern Pickets Traverse

  

The line is striking. A row of jagged shards of granite, 3 miles long, towers high above jumbled cascades of ice. Deep valleys, lush with ancient forests, plunge over a vertical mile on every side. The soaring spires simultaneously beg to be climbed, and inspire fear and intimidation in alpine suitors- infamous tales abound of heinous, brushy, and steep approaches, followed by steeper, loose rock, gravelly gullies, and airy summits. A pure, raw place of beauty and challenge.

I’d been hoping to visit the Pickets for years, and finally found myself in the right place at the right time for a great adventure. In Bellingham, with free time and a decent forecast, I brainstormed ideas. I eventually came across a truly impressive trip report from local legends Jeff and Priti Wright: The Southern Pickets Traverse. Part story, part route guide, the report chronicled their saga of alpine adventure, with excellent photo topos of much of the traverse. They recounted climbing up and over 13 major summits and many more smaller towers and features, navigating roughly 50 pitches of 5th class climbing connected by long stretches of exposed scrambling. 

Wary of the Pickets’ notoriously stormy weather, I schemed a “smash and grab.” I’d go as fast as possible and take what I could get. I planned to hike in on July 21, with a couple days of food (mostly protein bars pillaged from the Aspire stash), a thin rap cord, a handful of cams, crampons, and rock shoes. I’d start the route early the next morning, climb as far as I could get in a day, and then take one of several potential bail gullies to the South. A reconnaissance mission, perhaps? I did, of course, research the entire route, including the crux sections on the last few peaks. A successful alpinist must occasionally be wildly optimistic. 

Everything I carried on the traverse

  

The hike in to Terror Basin was actually quite pleasant. After some miles of lovely trail along Goodell creek, the route ascended a steep, forested hillside. A classic Cascadian traverse across pristine alpine meadows eventually led me into the immense amphitheater of granite. Even on the south side of the ridge, a broken mass of glacial ice persists. Massive towers at its head form the first half of the traverse. 

Goodell Creek trail

Emerging from the forest en route to Terror Basin

The first half of the traverse and Terror Basin

I spent the afternoon lounging in the alpine sun, gazing out at the pristine mountains surrounding me, and contemplating the unanswerable questions of existence. As the sun disappeared below distant peaks, I nestled into a little scoop in the rock and drifted off with eager, nervous anticipation.

Sunset, with Mt. Triumph in the distance

I awoke long before the sun, ready to move. I could feel the towers looming above me in the night as I neared the start of the traverse. First up was Little Mac Spire. A set of rampy ledges wound up its face, providing surprisingly easy passage up the sheer wall. The difficulty gradually increased as I continued upwards in the darkness. An improbable 5.8 traverse on delicate crimps guarded the summit ridge. I gingerly stepped across on the sloping footholds, the darkness of the open air below my heels adding a heightened feeling of exposure. I completed the traverse, grateful to be back on more secure terrain, and carried on to the top of the spire just as the horizon began to glow with the first light of day. 

The sun rises over the North Cascades

I paused for a moment to admire the endless sea of peaks emerging from the darkness, then turned my attention to the next section of the traverse. East McMillan Spire seemed close, but was separated by a deep, narrow notch. A bit of scrambling and a steep rappel brought me to the col. My attention wandered to the next bit of climbing as I pulled my rope, and suddenly it was stuck. I did my best to suppress a wave of frustration at being held up so early in the day. I made a gamble by starting up the next bit of climbing with my rope trailing behind me. The notch was narrow enough that I was able to climb above the offending horn that had snagged my rope and swing it free. I coiled and stowed it, then continued up moderate rock to the summit. Here, I was met with the first real view along the top of the ridge, the complex terrain zig-zagging away from me in the glorious sunrise. Intimidation and stoke simultaneously filled my mind. 

Looking west from East McMillan at sunrise. Mt. Baker is visible in the distance.

The descent to the base of the next spire was a straightforward scramble, and I settled into a rhythm. Climb, admire the surrounding terrain in awe, descend, repeat. The row of towers were relentlessly technical. The rock was sometimes awful, and I sent many flakes clattering endlessly down to the jumbled icefalls below. Occasionally, it was pristine, such as the ascent of Inspiration Peak, where a lovely hand crack split a vertical headwall, providing secure and wildly fun climbing in a truly insane position. Glorious. Mostly, the rock was “super good enough”, and with a bit of care made for reasonably efficient climbing. 

I felt wonderfully connected with the terrain as I moved over tower after tower. I was intensely aware of both the texture of each hold below my hands and the enormity of the alpine arena around me. I rarely stopped moving for more than a moment. I deliberately avoided checking the time, preferring to gauge my progress on how I felt and the movement of the sun across the sky. Pyramid, Degenhardt, and Terror slipped by. Clouds began billowing over the ridge, first wisps, and later puffy. They certainly added a bit of extra alpine feel, but never threatened to develop into any major weather. 

Clouds forming over Mount Terror

Endless exposed scrambling, with some more difficult pitches interspersed throughout, led me over the Rake, the Blip, and the Needles. The sun was still high in the sky, and for the first time, I felt that the entire traverse was a possibility, and that the finish was somewhere in sight. However, I still had to contend with the (wonderfully named) Himmelgeisterhorn, the technical crux of the route. I approached the tooth of rock with trepidation, knowing that difficult climbing on questionable rock lay ahead.

The Himmelgeisterhorn, one of the most challenging and striking peaks in the Cascades

I clambered onto a ledge at the base of the spire. Using a Yosemite solo big wall trick, I filled my pack with rocks and balanced it on the small ledge, attaching the thin cord to an anchor above the ledge, then down to the pack, then flaked out into coils. Hopefully, if I fell, the force required to lift the weighted pack above the anchor would provide some sort of “soft” catch before the thin, static line went tight. I used a rudimentary rope-solo system of a stack of clove hitches with loops of slack in between dangling from my harness, dropping one off each time I needed more rope. 

I slowly, methodically worked my way up the pitch, navigating a carpet of lichen and several very hollow flakes, plugging a couple decent cams on the way. Partway up, I tried to place a small cam that I had found earlier in the day. Realizing it had somehow clipped itself to my ATC, I unclipped that as well to sort out the tangle, and somehow dropped both, watching them sail into the abyss below. I guess the cam had decided that the Pickets were its home. A few final tenuous moves brought me to a small perch on the razor-sharp arete where the angle relented slightly. I built an anchor with my remaining cams and a slung horn, did my best to rappel smoothly on a munter hitch back to my pack, dumped the rocks, cleaned the lower anchor, then re- ascended the pitch. It was a tedious process, but I was happy to have some added protection on the insecure climbing. 

Before too long, all my gear was stowed and I continued up and over a wild, impossibly sharp fin of rock nicknamed “Dusseldorfspitz” and on to the summit of Himmelgeisterhorn. I struggled to locate the correct rappel line, and when I did I promptly got my rope stuck again. After a couple more rappels I resorted to downclimbing the steep but ledgy face to the col. 

Himmelgeisterhorn summit view

In a way, this col marks the end of the traverse. Although two peaks, Ottohorn and Frenzelspitz, still remained, they were both out-and-backs, and I would return back and exit from here. Fortunately, I had daylight and energy to spare. I dropped my pack and scrambled up Ottohorn first, which was fairly straightforward and went quickly. 

Frenzelspitz, the final peak, is shorter and somewhat detached, but is a marvelously aesthetic pyramid that just begs to be climbed. I made a nasty, loose traverse across the north face of Ottohorn (potentially the most dangerous part of the entire route) and then enjoyed a few engaging pitches up and down the beautiful ridge in the warm glow of evening. I returned to the Himmel-Otto col just as the sun began to sink low in the sky.  

Looking south, with the Chopping Block center.

It would have been a lovely, fairy tale ending if the adventure had concluded here. However, in the Cascades, some proper, blue-collar alpine groveling is a must. The couloir that was my escape from the vertical world was filled with mud, gravel, snow, and ice. Shenanigans included sketching down frozen snow without crampons, downclimbing loose, wet rock with crampons, sliding down a tight vertical slot between snow and mud, and generally getting wet, scared, and totally over it. Finally, I emerged from the depths just as the last glimmer of twilight faded on the western horizon. 

Escaping the vertical world at dusk

Darkness fell and the true slog began, as I traversed two sweeping basins, hopped across thundering streams of glacial meltwater, and downclimbed “the barrier” on impossibly steep grass. Hours later, I finally collapsed into my sleeping bag, exhausted and satisfied. I was on the move for a little over 20 hours, about 13 hours from the first summit to the last. It would take several days for the true enormity of the trip to set in, but in that moment, I was content to simply, deeply sleep.

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Several impressive traverses in the Pickets have been documented, I'd highly recommend checking them out. Specifically, I'm grateful to the FA team of Bunker, Haley, and Wallace for realizing a truly epic vision (trip report here) and the Wrights for putting together an impressively thorough route guide (trip report) onsighting a traverse like this in a day would have been much more challenging. I’ll happily take the ol’ alpine flash!

The Southern Pickets 
cr- Stephen Matera