Unfortunately, I just didn’t have the experience to handle Mount Adams on my own. And my little adventure just goes to show you that there are some things you can’t teach yourself from a book – mountaineering is one of them. And who knows, had the weather cooperated, I might not be writing any of this, instead gleefully posting pictures from the summit. Maybe next year. But when all is said and done, at least it was a learning experience.
The three-hour drive out to Adams from Portland couldn’t be more scenic. It was nearing sunset, and the forest roads were idyllic, despite huge blotches of fire retardant from the Cold Springs fire, which at this point was contained but still smoldering on the southeast side of the mountain.
The Cold Springs campground is nice, with close-up views of the glaciers on Adams peeking through the trees to the north and lots of car campers. I spread out my sleeping bag in the back of the rental, but slept fitfully as climbers returned in small groups well into the night, their headlamps bobbing into sight several hundered feet away.
I started later than I intended, frankly creeped out by the dark at 3 a.m. I waited until some other climbers left closer to 4:30. Headphones blasting Erasure and The Clash worked wonders for drowning out things that go bump in the night, but I really needed that extra time.
Eventually the sky lightened to a soft lavender and then everything was beautiful, from the rolling foothills in the distance to the rust-colored cairns marking the path. The wind picked up, and I stopped worrying about the dark and started worrying about my pack weight. Noob mistake #1, overpacking. I had a snack and filtered more water at Morrison Creek using Katadyn tabs.
At dawn, the false summit had looked impossibly far away, but the in another couple hours as I was crossing my first snowfield (ever) I thought, “hey, this isn't so bad." I traversed a steep slope using my axe and sideways steps, and then continued climbing over snow and rock.
I passed a couple tents nestled along the ridgeline, but few hikers. It was about 8:45 when I finally reached the first rock piles on the plateau indicating I was at Lunch Counter. It took me four hours, which is at the tail end of the time it takes most people. That would mean that it would take me at least another four hours to get to the summit, assuming my body performed at the same sluggish speed from here on out. I knew the next portion contained a gain of 2,500 ft, but it didn’t really hit home until I could see the whole thing laid out in front of me. Shit.
The sky was still sunny except for a haze across Mount Hood, the snow wasn’t too steep, and I had plenty of water. If I set my turnaround time for just around 1 or 2 p.m. I had a shot. At the very least I’d hit the false summit at Piker’s Peak. I let a solo hiker catch up so I could commiserate a little, and we discussed our route to Suksdorf Ridge. Together we decided on an s-shaped path which in retrospect probably wasted time due to the taking on-and-off of crampons. I eventually started seeing climbers up above preparing to glissade down the long chute from Piker’s Peak and knew I was on track.
It was at about this point I looked back and saw that the sky had gotten a little gray. Around 10:30 or so I passed a woman who was turning back and we talked weather - she said there were still quite a few climbers above us.
I knew from my GPS that I was gaining hundreds of feet, but I might as well have been in slow motion for all I could tell. I kept looking back, and it kept looking grayer.
But on I went as the skies darkened, until some climbers coming down warned me about the possibility of lightning. By noon I’d made it to about just under 11,000 ft and was shy of the false summit by 600 feet or so. At that point, I began to give up. I was tired, the weather was getting scary, and the mountain would be there next year. I began my descent.
It was then that I started getting into trouble. My first slide was fun. My second was downright dangerous. The snow was icy and I couldn't brake. Once I lost my grip on my ice axe and hung suspended by my wriststrap on the slope. I hung there for a minute trying to get a toe-hold while the strap sawed a raw spot into my wrist. I disengaged the pick somehow, and then started glissading again, this time losing control of my speed and lifting off into some rocks next to the family that I’d been watching down below, tearing my snow pants and decorating my entire leg leg with a constellation of bruises. “Not a good day for beginners,” the guy deadpanned. Mistake #2: practice self arrest before you need it.
After that the slope was more gradual, and I watched some kids butt-scoot from mogul to mogul, until they found a comfortable chute in which to scoot back down to Lunch Counter. I followed cautiously, digging my feet in as much as possible, and feeling cheated out of what was supposed to be the best part of this climb.
At Lunch Counter I took a bathroom break and explored the sulphuric moonscape a little bit. I was envying the summitters who’d camped here overnight, and vowed to get a better tent and come back and make it a two-day trip next time.
I followed a couple in the distance, assuming that they were on route. They were moving slow without mountaineering equipment, so I zipped past them and soon found myself at a shockingly steep dropoff. At the time I thought I was looking down Crescent Glacier and that it was my perspective that made it look so much steeper. In actuality, I had veered west of Crescent Ridge by following the couple instead of watching my GPS and was now looking down the wrong snowfield. This sort of disorientation is supposed to be common descending Adams, usually in whiteouts. Mistake #3, and this is the crucial one: I then blundered down the wrong ridgeline like Rambo without a jockstrap, blithely admiring the pretty lupine as the rain started to fall.
Then the trail ended, and I realized I was alone. And lost. In a storm.
I spent about an hour trying to reorient myself. I had both a map and GPS but I was totally confused, to the point of thinking the gadget was broken. I studied the map, and after attempting to cross a canyon to get back to the correct ridgeline and falling in some brush, I decided to head for the Round the Mountain Trail. This was the first smart decision I'd made in hours. I was able to reach it and begin the trek back to my car in under an hour or so. It all seemed so clear once I hit the trail, but my mind had played some serious tricks on me.
Back at the trailhead, a hiker I'd met at Lunch Counter beamed broadly at me. “Wow, did you make the summit?”
“Hell no,” I panted. “The weather got bad, and honestly, I doubt I could’ve even on a perfect day. That thing is a beast!”
"Welcome to the mountains," he laughed.
He had turned around as well, which made me feel a little better. Some folks unpacking near us overheard, and one let out a low whistle when he heard I’d tried to do a one-day solo. “I wouldn’t even do that,” he said. I drove home in a stupor, too exhausted to be ashamed. The mountain looked ominous behind me.
My ego is bruised, but not irreparably. That was a big task, and I wasn't ready for it, physically, mentally, or training-wise. I could've ended up on the news, lost in the woods and eating bugs for days. But I'm glad I tried, and I hope I learn from my mistakes.
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