SierraDescents.com

The Hotlum-Wintun Ridge

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.

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 slows. I find a boot track. By staying in the footsteps, I don't tend to sink as far.

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 makes 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 summit remains clear—for the moment—but a menacing Lenticular is forming about a mile away. Urged onward by the building clouds, I will myself to continue.

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. I stop, looking north toward the nearby Hotlum, admiring the glacier's three impressive ice falls.

The weather continues its schizophrenic character. The sky overhead is blue, but the horizons grow darker. Shasta's summit, inexplicably 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 head for the rocks to scramble up raw talus rather than continue this dismal post-holing.

The soft snow, however, has extracted its price: I'm wasted. Overhead, wisps of clouds suddenly streak from Shasta's summit. Still on the rocks, I veer toward the Wintun glacier. A short traverse shows I'm within perhaps two or three hundred vertical feet of the summit. To the southeast I now see a horizon darkened with rain clouds, all of which are rushing toward me.

The lead offender is perhaps 30 minutes away from the summit. I look upwards, gauge my possibilities. Given my present energy level, I doubt I can make the summit any sooner than 30 minutes myself. Still, I give it a try. The cloud and I jockey for position, trying to be first to the top of the mountain...

next: The Descent