forest mcbrian-mountain guide

Just north of Snoqualmie pass lies an area of wild, rugged peaks. You can see them from the top of Denny mountain, and from many of the day tours around the pass. After weeks of storm skiing in the old-growth, a good high pressure offered the opportunity to go explore.

My fiancee Erin and I skinned up Commonwealth on Wednesday, hoping that the forecast would pan out and bring a sunny afternoon. Instead we found wind slabs in the trees, and dwindling prospects. As we climbed toward the Kendall Catwalk, we took a lot of time evaluating stability.

We found a safe way up to the col and threw on crampons. The ridge beyond forces you to one side and then the other, and with the driving snow it offered some real climbing excitement. Beyond we skinned on through a cloud, still vigilant of windslab. A good powder run saw us down to Alaska lake and our spacious accommodation.

Up and over Alaska Mountain in the morning, we had to move fast to keep up with our time plan. Dropping over into the headwaters of the Middle Fork brought a new wave of solitude, and Chair peak began to seem quite distant. The Lemahs watched over as we climbed back toward the sun and the col above Chikamin Lake. We ditched overnight gear and sprinted up the mellow southwest face of Lemah 1, and hastened to ski down while the snow was perfect. It’s hard to say, but we think it may have been the first ski descent of this peak.

A mile-long glide brought us to camp at Glacier Lake, where the moon rose above Mt. Stuart to the east. In the shadow of the Four Brothers and the Three Queens, we made dinner and cherished the silence.

The morning brought increasingly grand views of the Lemahs back to the north, and dozens of intriguing projects for the future. Wild plumes of snow peeled off the summits and through the cols, and we skied one last good powder run into Gold Creek. The Chikamin high route has it all: solitude, solace, challenge, and great skiing.

“The mountains only live because we love them. Where the houses and the trees and the flowers give way, there begins the lifeless world, wild, mineral; at the same time, in its dire poverty, in its total bareness, the place dispenses riches without price: the happiness we find in the eyes of those who go there.”

–Gaston Rebuffat

This November I’ll be guiding a small group on Ama Dablam. I’ve been dreaming of this peak for a long time. Dreaming about it is nice, but life is short, so it’s time to go.

Last June on Denali I had the chance to hang out with a fellow named Ang. When I met him he was busy wowing the rangers with his card tricks in the med tent. Ang was working as a volunteer ranger and getting a taste of the Alaska range. At high camp he spun me some stories of his home mountains, and I realized I no longer had any excuses. When someone invites you to visit, isn’t it polite to take them up on the offer?

While exploring the North Cascades this autumn, I got to thinking about what it means to have a home range. It means a well-annotated mental map of the place, and a long list of questions and mysteries and love affairs yet to be had. There is plenty of excitement for me in my home range, and certainly adventures. But the nature of mountains–and the nature of myself–means that I always tend to catalogue and categorize the secrets; I seek a state of comfortable familiarity with the place. So while my backyard still offers the challenge of first ascents, foreign mountains offer utter immersion in the mystery. What is this flower here? What’s that snowy peak to the east? What’s the name of this river? I’m excited for these questions, and for the climb of a lifetime.

I’ll spend the month leading up to the expedition in the Khumbu area, climbing the route on Ama and laying the groundwork for a smooth trip.The classic route climbs the southwest ridge of this iconic 6,000 meter peak (the right-hand skyline in the Ben Tubby photo above). With difficulties on rock, snow and ice at high altitude, this is a climb for alpinists with a fairly strong resume covering a variety of long mountain routes. We’ll acclimatize on some trekking peaks, move camps up the mountain with support from Ang’s seasoned Sherpa crew, and poise ourselves for a summit. It will be thirty days of grand adventure, and it all begins November 1st when we meet in Khatmandu.

If this adventure speaks to you, or if you’d like to know more, please give me a call. The mountains of home are the perfect place to train, and Ama is the perfect excuse to fill this summer with memorable climbs.

Stay tuned for updates.

Another foray onto the wild northern reaches of Snoqualmie Mountain yielded a fun ski with good friends. We can’t wait to get back and ski it with more snow, and perhaps using some kind of creative access other than booting the couloir.

After topping out at a lonely little notch in the vastness of the mountain side, we climbed along a ramp system searching for an exit onto the long northern arm of Snoqualmie. We didn’t find one, but we did find that the ramp system connected eventually to the Crooked couloir. One could combine these features into something of a wild romp.

The skiing on the north side proved rather firm, but a little dusting of new offered fairly smooth turns. On the descent back toward the car, the snow had softened nicely to a buttery consistency. For as little snow as has fallen, we can’t complain about conditions like these.

This very dry December yielded all sorts of fun in the backyard. While the coverage was minimal and the temperature warmed up several times, the snow was distributed evenly over the landscape. That means that you could get just about anywhere, and at Snoqualmie pass that is the key: if the snow isn’t great, just visit some really cool terrain.

I spent a beautiful Friday out with Dave and Travis. Our focus was the technical end of ski mountaineering. First we worked on setting and managing rappels on skis, making the easy (and unnecessary) rappel into the Slot. Then, after negotiating the small pocket slabs lingering in the couloir, we skied some great turns down the apron and began skinning up again. This time we headed for the big gully looker’s right of the Slot, which is sometimes called the Snot Gully.

I had to do some research on the names for the various features on the north side of Snoqualmie. The Slot, it seems, was once referred to as the “Enigma Gully,” mainly by climbers. This name was then misapplied to the next gully west, which is to say the Snot. I’ve also seen the Snot referred to as “Phantom Gully,” a name which is nothing but confusing. (The Phantom Slide, of course, is the slide path leading up the south side of Mt. Snoqualmie from the vicinity of the lodge).

“Snot Couloir” doesn’t feel like a very cool name for such a cool place, but it is wordplay for “Not the Slot.” If you have ever peered down into this thing from the top while heading for the Slot, the name will make sense. It tops out on the same ridge as the Slot, only several hundred feet lower and to the west. It’s also the access for New York Gully.

I was curious to check out the terrain near the head of this gully. I had wandered up that way after pulling the plug on a climb of New York gully years ago. Just short of where the gully meets the ridge, I had followed ramps and short mixed steps up and left. So we gave it a shot, based solely on my memory. What we found was a delightful and moderate alpine climb. We climbed a few long pitches on steep, firm snow. Then we headed up a series of short steps involving cruxes on a mix of rock, ice, and sugar snow. These cruxes felt like 5.7 or so. Rock horns and trees provided plentiful anchors, and it went pretty fast. The climb up the Snot to our left-hand exit came in at 1,500′ vertical feet from Thunder Creek.

I got a kind note from Dave a few weeks later:

“Travis and I got out and did the Crooked (E entrance) on the back side of Mt Snoqualmie! Very fun. Skiing was, ummmm, pretty much awful but we had a GREAT day!!!! We brought harnesses and a 60m rope for the bottom of the Crooked. It turns out we were able to billy goat down it without a rap — but were both SO psyched, Forest, for the couple days last weekend which made us confident that we could commit to this route and be very confident in pulling off a rappel! Thank you!!!!!”

The ice has been a little reluctant to fatten up in the Alpental Valley this December. That’s not unusual, and it’s not a show-stopper. The last few weeks I managed to sharpen the tools and come up with some great options.

Think Thin

I climbed the north face of Chair Peak with some friends. The last time I climbed it was many years ago, and it was a perfect sheet of neve then. What we found this December was very different, with incipient ice barely coating the underlying rock and heather. While the terrain isn’t steep, the conditions served up some challenge. A few short constrictions offered gymnastic fun, where later they are filled in completely. The constant shopping for good placements re-calibrates your sense of “good,” and the lack of pro keeps you paying attention. Choosing thin conditions for a climb well below your comfortable limit is a great way to work your alpine skills.

Fail, then go cragging.

I went to the east face of the Tooth with Kurt Hicks. This route follows a ramp system across the big face above Pineapple basin, then heads for a chimney directly under the summit. The climbing was fun right off the ground, with runnel ice and rock moves, and just enough pro. Kurt built a belay on top of the first pitch and the ambience was distinctly alpine. Only an hour and a quarter from the car!

Well into the next pitch I pulled the plug. We wanted more ice on this pitch, and the pro was just not materializing to protect the snowy rock moves. I slung an iffy horn, clipped the rope with a beater biner, and started downclimbing. It will be there waiting for me next time.

On the way down we stopped by the Rap Wall for some drytool  action. In no time we had a good pump going, and the rock moves on the east face already seemed more doable. A few days later I ran into some fellows at Bryant Buttress who had just turned around on the first pitch of Chair’s north face. They were using the same strategy–fail and then go cragging–which is a convenient fringe benefit to climbing in Alpental Valley.

Go looking

There are great unskied couloirs and unclimbed lines all over the Snoqualmie backcountry. On the Solstice I went out with the Pro Guiding Service guide crew for a wild tour north of Snoqualmie. One the way I saw two great, nameless couloirs, and a half-dozen intriguing mixed lines. Entering these in my “Black Book” database back at home always gets me excited for the variety and adventure of winter. And it reminds me that these mountains are, well, limitless.

It breaks my heart that I’ve had to snip this high pressure up into little bits. But it fits with the work of settling into the winter: I have lessons to plan, tours to map, and some ski legs that need to get a lot bigger. I took a day to go visit the north side of Mt. Snoqualmie with my friend Kurt Hicks. We went to climb New York Gully, a fun and varied day out in my wonderful backyard.

I climbed New York Gully ten years ago. At the time it was a big, big undertaking for me, and we had something of an epic day. It was one of those mind-expanding adventures that opens up new possibilities. I’m really glad I didn’t get hurt, because in hindsight I can see that I was out of my league. I’m also really glad that I have a better sense of my league now. While I still need vigilance, and I am more aware than ever of hazard, I don’t feel I run much risk of just wandering onto a route where I don’t belong. But I stop short of regretting those stupid choices, because I appreciate how much they shaped me. The burned hand teaches best, and perhaps the corollary is that scars always make good stories.

Mt. Snoqualmie is exceptional in many respects. First of all it is tremendously varied: broad, gentle ridges, steep timbered avalanche chutes, craggy buttresses and walls interspersed with spectacular couloirs. Second, it is tremendously accessible: in under three hours a fit party can be climbing the first pitch of New York gully or dropping into the Slot Couloir. And lastly, it still has room for exploration. I have my eye on several interesting mixed lines and hidden chutes, and I doubt I am the only one.

New York Gully impresses me as a very alpine experience. The climbing is never severe, but it is engaging and varied. The beautiful box gully forming the heart of the route requires clever gear placements and an affinity for frozen moss. A short, steep wall on pitch 6 is given an A2 rating, but we freed it with some judicious bare-handed jamming: just brilliant climbing. Our yelps of joy echoed nicely off the adjacent walls.

The route is becoming a classic. Some of the key holds at the cruxes are starting to be given away by the crampon marks, which makes me smile: I can’t wait to see how it looks in another ten years. Of course, I’m not going to wait that long. Next week is looking good…

On Halloween I set out with two friends to visit another wild corner of the north Cascades. Hiking once more to Cascade Pass, this time we continued east, through bear tracks and the dwindling howls of an autumn storm. We set up camp among larches and hoped that the weather would clear as forecast; it was a good 12 mile wander from the car, so we had made our wager.

We woke up at 4am and made our hot drinks. The stars shone, and the snow glittered with new facets. Soon we were crossing through a high col and dropping onto a very lonely glacier and moving even further east. We headed for a line we had seen in a Scurlock photograph.

We found a face far bigger and more complex than we had expected. It was three mountains folded into one another, whole faces and cirques hiding around each bend. Our photo became meaningless. Suddenly  I felt quite alone, and I looked around at the valley. What an abandoned place, and what a desolate season!

Thin snow let show dead leaves and brush; it curtained the dark shards of the boulders and talus. I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be laying eyes on this place. This was a moment that was meant to pass in total wildness, with no men for miles and miles. And yet I realized how seldom I had come to the mountains at just this time, at the very threshold of winter, and I was so glad to have come.

By the time we knew we had failed, the spindrift had calmed and the day had begun to dim. A 100 foot vertical waterfall barred the way, the thin ice barely masking the running water behind.We rappelled a steep buttress right of our couloir, linking 70m raps off tiny trees, ledge to perch to ledge. We hit the glacier, barely, and wove back through the bergschrund toward our tracks.

The new bear tracks led back up into Pelton Basin. The paws nearly filled the center of an old boot mark. In one place, I thought I saw a print smeared by paws slipping where the trail crossed a frozen seep. Again and again I am surprised by the nature of the seasons; to my untrained mind, a bear should have no business left up here so late as November. But then neither should I. I keep wanting to know more about the unlikely errands done by all the creatures who wander these mountains.

While hiking up Sahale Arm last week, Kurt Hicks and I spied some potential on the north face of Mixup Peak. We scribbled it down on the mental ledger of mountain arcana; to my surprise, we had the opportunity to come back and check it out a few days ago. Long story short, we found what may be one of the finest and easily accessed seasonal ice routes in the Cascades. We named it “The Misunderstanding”: a play on the name of the peak, and a joke about the funny day we had (we tried the first pitch at 9 AM, bailed, took a walk for three hours, then on a whim took another look). You can read Kurt’s fine trip report and see more of his great photos here.

During the brief sunny window offered on Monday and Tuesday, I went to the North Cascades in search of seasonal ice. While guiding Sahale this summer, I noticed this extremely narrow slot of a couloir dropping down the east face from near the summit; the Scurlock photos of course added to my excitement. I couldn’t tell if it was a ski run or a climb, but I felt compelled by the thing.  The storms of late September and early October gave me hope that some magic had taken place, and I convinced my friend Kurt Hicks to go have a look with me.

The gentle trail to Cascade Pass went quickly with our eyes pasted on the north face of Johannesberg. I think we talked about every line we had ever dreamed of climbing or skiing.  We passed a pair of utterly fearless ptarmigans, just three brown feathers left on each wing. They were scuttling about in the heather and a rather fresh set of bear tracks (you can just make them out in the photo above). Later the tracks lead up Sahale Arm to a tight stand of hemlocks where the bear had bedded down. The patchy snow broke our rhythm and made my pack feel heavy; the bear, too must have grumbled at all the berries too soon covered by snow. Life can be hard in the in-between times.

We pulled into our camp at the toe of the Sahale glacier and shook our heads: we would be camping on new snow. We both agreed that the year had offered exactly one calendar month without a night spent sleeping on snow. The sun went down over the vastness of the cascades to our south, and we set our alarms for 3AM.

At 3 it was warmer than at sunset. Still, the stars shone and we agreed we should at least go for a walk. We wandered down in the dark, the land dropping away in mysterious slabs and gullies, the moonlight only suggesting that poor choices might well be possible this morning. We took our time, a little convinced that the route wouldn’t be in. Two hours brought us down into Horseshoe basin, up onto the Davenport glacier and over to the base of the route.

The first pitch took an hour. A tall fin of last season’s snowpack stood in the center of a vertical chimney. I tried climbing on the right, chimneying between the rock and ice. An overhanging exit made me back down. Kurt sent me over to the left side, where a similar chimney scheme got me up to an exit through a little hole and the easier terrain of the couloir. You can see Kurt popping out of said hole in the photo above.

As I had hoped, the couloir was exceedingly narrow. The snow was still pretty soft and made for some real work. I think it averaged 50 degrees with some steep bulges. Ice crept up here and there, with the occasional good tool placement offering some solace in the face of the constant rain of ice bits from the walls around us. We belayed again at the exit, where sugar snow and an infant cornice offered a fun mantling problem.

A quick scramble up the summit and we were able to change out wet gloves in the sun, eat some food, and chuck the ropes down the south side. I felt lucky that I love such a strange thing as mountain climbing, and luckier still that I have friends who share in my strangeness.

On the hike down the Arm, a powerful wind picked up, and we had to lean into it in order to keep walking a straight line. I thought of Johnny Cash’s song, “Outside the leaves are falling, a cold wild wind has come.” Here’s to the in-between times.

On Thursday I took advantage of the fine weather to go get some turns on Heliotrope ridge. The north-facing slopes of Heliotrope offer great access to mildly crevassed glacier ice and some great early season lap skiing. And the views of Mt. Baker and the Black Buttes are exceptional.

Kurt Hicks and I enjoyed a brisk hike up to the start of the snow–just below Hogsback camp at 6,000′. From there it was simply a matter of taking in the day: perfect temps, perfect snow, perfect views. It felt like a big payoff for a small investment.

The roiling icefalls of the Coleman and Thunder glaciers; the craggy peaks of Colfax and Lincoln festooned in ice; the white peaks sprawling north into British Columbia; it felt like the start of another grand season.

Thank you to Kurt for a fine day and for the use of this final picture.