The Hotlum-Wintun Ridge

Shasta in Pink. The weather seemed promising as dawn broke, though that would soon change.

A Race to the Summit

1. Soul Skier's Paradise
2. Scouting the Ridge
3. Dawn Patrol
4. A Race to the Summit
5. Descent

As the first rays of run glowed pink on the Wintun Glacier, the sky seemed to clear. I hoped I was misreading the weather.

The snow, however, softened as soon as the sun touched it. I guess it was July after all!

Despite the moderate incline, and the softening snow, I decided to remain on foot, hiking in crampons, using my ski poles for balance.

Checking the time, however, I saw that I was running behind schedule.

I had hoped to be on the upper snow fields by seven a.m., and the summit beyond by nine.

Like most volcanoes, Shasta's size is deceptive.

The gradually-sloping angle fools the eye. Moreover, the gently-sloping base requires climbers to travel a substantial distance horizontally.

As the snow continued to soften, and the air began to thin, my pace slowed. I found a boot track from previous climbers and discovered that by following other's footsteps, I didn't tend to sink as far into the softening snow.

Many writers have remarked on how much drudgery is involved in climbing: put one foot in front of the other.

Repeat.

Repeat again.

A thousand times more.

Another thousand.

I don't recall who first said it, but climbing offers as much travel within the confines of one's own head as without; I've come to treasure these moments of introspection, when all life is reduced to the simplicity of pressing onward, onward, for no reason other than because you can.

The heart races; the lungs protest. Below, the magnificent sweep of Shasta's girth extends outward. The wind picks up, blowing squarely into my face.

The weight of my skis, combined with the D70's unwelcome mass begins to make my shoulders ache.

The passing time also clears up any confusion regarding the weather: cells of concern are sprouting across the eastern horizon.

As for Shasta, the peak's summit remains clear, untainted by any cloud buildup.

However, what appears to be a lenticular cloud is developing perhaps a mile or two north of the peak, building, then melting. Yes indeed, I realize, it's going to be a race.

What I need is a rest. Urged onward by the clouds, however, I will myself to continue upwards, choosing landmarks ahead, then timing myself to see how long it will take to get there. Each passing landmark sees me farther and farther behind schedule.

As planned, I break with the traditional ascent route. Rather than traversing left onto the Wintun glacier, I instead veer right, following the steepening snow pack below a band of rocks and cliffs.

At last, I've reached the upper snowfield. The slope steepens. Unfortunately, I am no longer able to follow a boot trail up. Now, I'm sinking into the snow with each step—bona fide post-holing. The effect on my pace and my morale is devastating.

The effort required to gain vertical defies belief. I stop, looking north toward the nearby Hotlum glacier, admiring the glacier's three impressive ice falls, as well as its crevasse fields and seracs. The Hotlum is clearly a far wilder glacier than the more tranquil Wintun.

Compared to the glaciers of Rainier, these are of course much smaller. But it's still a thrill to see crevasses beneath the California sun.

Speaking of sun, the weather continues its schizophrenic character. The sky overhead is blue, but the surrounding horizons are growing darker. Shasta's summit, inexplicably (but thankfully) remains clear. The cloud formation to the north has returned, darker and more menacing than ever.

Meanwhile, the softening snow has degraded to the point that good travel on foot is all but impossible. I actually decide to head to the rocks, and scramble up the rough talus, rather than continue this dismal post-holing.

I step onto the rock and remove my crampons. Scrambling over the rocks while carrying skis is ordinarily a withering proposition, but the change is actually an improvement.

The snow, however, has taken its price: I'm wasted. I guess my altitude is currently near fourteen thousand feet, and I'm just about running on empty. Overhead, however, I can see wisps of clouds driven by the now-raging wind streaking off Shasta's summit.

Still on the rocks, I veer toward the Wintun glacier, wanting to fix my position, wondering how far the summit is. A short traverse and scramble shows that I'm within perhaps two or three hundred vertical feet of the summit. From this point, I can also see to the southeast: a horizon darkened with rain clouds, all of which are streaking toward my current position.

The lead offender is perhaps 30 minutes away from the summit, which inexplicably remains clear. I look upwards, gauge my possibilities. Given my present energy level, I doubt I can make the summit any sooner than 30 minutes myself.

The cloud and I jockey for position, trying to be first to the top of the mountain. At the summit, meanwhile, I can see a group of climbers who've come up from the other side of the mountain (by far the more popular and crowded path). They mill about. I wonder if they're as concerned about the changing weather as I am.

As a skier, I know I've got a tremendous advantage: once I snap into my bindings, I can descend all the way back to the safety of my tent in a matter of minutes. The climbers, on the other hand, will be stuck on Shasta's higher reachers for the next several hours.

Given the look of the sky, I don't envy them.

Next: The Descent »