Mount Shasta, 2: The Ascent
BASE CAMP (8600 feet), above Clear Creek Springs
We found a perfect spot, just big enough for tent and bivouac, with a
convenient stone to set our stove on, and surrounded on three sides by
dwarf pines hardly eight feet tall, open toward the north where our peak
lay, and partly closed off to the south. We set up camp: Simon's
lightweight Marmot tent for Pavel and me, the old-timers; Simon himself
was happy enough to sleep in his bivvy bag, under the stars.
All ready to turn in for the night — well, half the night…
Then they two clambered down to the creek, a couple hundred yards away and
a hundred feet lower, and filled all our canteens with water, filtering
and purifying it with Simon's UV light thingy. I marvel at the technology
now available; camping's not what it was when we used to car-camp in the
Trinities, back in the 1960's. By now it was l'heure bleu, the
air clearer but softer, the peak benign within its gathering mists. I
broke out a little flask I'd brought along: mini-Martinis for everyone.
Then we dined, if you can call it that, on chili and beans and rice,
freeze-dried, reconstituted in their foil packages, then finished in our
one pot. With that, a few almonds and dates, and a chocolate bar
afterward;
L'heure bleu at Mount Shasta
and turned in for the night about seven-thirty. My sleeping bag is
lightweight down, rated only to forty degrees, and I slept in my long
underwear and heavy socks; even so at some point I woke up cold and put on
a lightweight polar-fleece jacket.
THE ASCENT We got up about 2:30 in the morning, dressed,
and breakfasted: oatmeal with raisins, prepared as the dinner had been and
tasting subtly of chili, beans, and rice — but no matter. I wasn't
particularly hungry, but knew I'd need fortification. The moon, only a day
past full, lit our way nicely, but we wore headlamps as well. Our packs
were lighter, of course; we left tent and sleeping bags behind, stove and
pot as well: but the boys insisted on carrying every possible water
container, full of water; and they stuffed packs and pockets full of
snacks, insisting we need stave off hunger before she showed her teeth. I
thought again how ideas change along with technology; perhaps reality
itself changes. Muir managed with bread and tea, and I don't need that
much more — almonds and dried fruit keep me happy until dinner-time. We
struck out about three o'clock. To get to our trail we first traversed due
west about a quarter mile, past one other tent whose inhabitants were
apparently just getting up. This was pleasant walking, directly toward the
moon: but soon we turned northwest and began to tackle the scree. After
half a mile of some switchbacking and traversing, the path took us in
virtually a straight line straight across the contour elevations between
Watkins Glacier and Thumb Rock.
Moon; Thumb Rock; Scree; Simon.
The word "scree" seems to mean different things to different people. To
me, scree is loose rock, anywhere from pullet's-egg to cobblestones in
size, strewn nearly so close as to cover the surface you're walking on.
It's treacherous enough in any event, as the rocks turn easily underfoot.
This scree was on a smooth steady slope pitched at between thirty and
thirty-five degrees, and it seemed to be floating on a bed of soft loose
ash. This deadens the rubble somewhat, holding the stones a bit more than
they would be on packed dirt: but they turned and slid nonetheless, and
the less predictably. We fought our way up through this scree in nearly a
straight line for nearly another mile, climbing steeply . It was dark when
we set out from the campsite, of course, and the moon was on her way down.
By six-thirty, after about three hours of walking, we were passing Thumb
Rock; patches of snow — glaciers? — lay here and there though never
underfoot, and the sun was beginning to rise: deep blue skie below a thin
band of smoky pink, clear blue sky above, the moon hanging two-thirds of
the way to its set. Incredible, how quickly daylight arrived — or was it
simply that we were making such slow progress?
The moon hangs over Thumb Rock (note photo is slightly tilted:
it's steeper than it looks!)
Our blogger guide had mentioned "a very large orange-colored rock sitting
randomly in the middle of the route that everyone uses as a rest stop", and
here we indeed rested. It was about ten-thirty in the morning; we'd been on
the trail steadily for seven hours, nearly always on a slope of at least
thirty degrees. I had frequently rested, of course, often standing, leaning
against my trekking poles, sometimes sitting when a rock big enough
presented itself. The orange rock — sometimes called "Mushroom Rock" because
of its shape; I'd have called it "Pillow Rock" because it looks like two
pillows stacked — was at about 12,600 feet: we'd climbed four thousand feet
by hiking about ten thousand feet: four in ten: on average, a slope of 40%,
or 22 degrees.
The boys — Pavel and Simon — resting at The
Orange Rock.
We had a short discussion, and then I said I have a little surprise for you:
I'm staying here; you guys go on up to the summit; I'll be here when you get
back. They seemed a little concerned and made me promise not to descend to
camp on my own, as if I had any intention. I was a little winded from the
thin air at that altitude, the effort of the climb, and the lack of sleep. I
knew I could get to the summit, but that it would be very slow going across
the next field of scree, and that an even harder slope lay beyond it. I'd
slow the boys down a lot. Worse, I'd add to the wear on my knees, and I'd
need those for the descent — down six or seven thousand feet, much of it
quite steep. I'd be better off with a nap at this point.
Tough stretch of scree above the Orange Rock
(note solitary climber).
It wasn't hard to convince them. They scrambled across
what had seemed to me a very difficult patch; soon they were out of sight.
I found a nice spot on the ground out of the wind. The rock sheltering me
was already warm in the sun; the ground underneath seemed soft. I had a
good hour's nap, a bandana on my face, before the crunching footsteps of
new arrivals woke me. Then there were interesting conversations: climbers
fit and unfit, equipped and gearless, aware and without a clue. A couple
of women arrived with an eight-year-old in short pants, lamenting at the
difficulty of the trail and the poor advice they'd been given at the
Forest Service. Then, about half-past-twelve, Pavel and Simon showed up,
and we prepared for our descent.
Base camp to Orange Rock: 1.8 miles, 4000 feet ascent, 7 hours
including rests