Climbing Log: Mount Sill - 1st Attempt

"Climbing California's Fourteeners," by Stephen Procella and Cameron Burns, is the "Bible" for climbers attempting to summit the 15 highest peaks in California. Each and every climbing party I met attempting one of these peaks has used this book in their research. This book is an amazing resource on the history of climbing these mountains, however, most of the discussions with climbers on the mountain usually display, with varying degrees of hostility, frustration over the lack of detail in finding routes described in the book.

Unfortunately, my climbing team and I learned this the hard way. Below is a log and analysis of our 1st attempt at climbing Mount Sill. (There will be a wrap-up and pictures to follow, however I am posting the body for now).

June 2003 - Unsuccessful Summit Attempt of Mount Sill

My attempt at climbing Mount Sill in June of 2003 was my first unsuccessful summit attempt. Many things happened that lead to this occurrance, but lack of solid beta, or intelligence, was the primary culprit.

TEAM MEMBERS

Since my name on this blog pseudonymous, I will do the same with my climbing team. The team, including me, consisted of five men who I will refer to as:

• Bam-Bam
• Bugle Bum (initially to be called Organ Arse)
• The Frenchman
• Me-Wind-Em-Up
• TF6S

TEAM OBJECTIVES

• Day One: Via Glacier Lodge, take the South Fork of the Big Pine Creek Trail to the top of a large buttress to reach Willow Lake. At Willow Lake, leave the trail and follow the creek east to Elinore Lake (not Elsinore as per Porcella). Set up camp for the night.
  
• Day Two: 5 am start. Leave camp with summit gear towards the Eastern face of Mount Sill. Ascend the mountain face via the Class 3 East Coulouir with Ice Axes and Crampons. Summit no later than 1 pm and decend via the same route (The Frenchman and Bugle Boy would ski down). At Elinore Lake, clean and pack up camp, then head back to Glacier Lodge parking lot the same way we came in.

TRIP LOG

DAY ONE: We began the trip, after a solid nights sleep, from Glacier Lodge. The 75-degree weather was perfect at 7,000 ft and everyone was giddy looking over the basin where we could view the rugged Palisade Crest and Norman Clyde Peak to South (all over 13,000 ft). I winced as The Frenchman and Bugle Bum put on their packs containing all their ski gear. With their packs over 100 pounds, I felt bad that I filled their ski boots with rocks. Ok, I didn't really do that, because that would be irresponsible; but I didn't envy them.

The initial hour of any climbing trip is where everything begins to settle and the tone is set for the whole trip--you begin to accept the reality that you are carrying 45 lbs. on your back and you find your pace and rhythm. During this point Bam-Bam suffered a hard lesson in learning to only pack what you need. His pack, even without the skis that the others were carrying, was severely over weight. Within twenty minutes, he was lagging behind and couldn’t keep up. After radioing him several times, I sensed his mounting frustration and decided it was necessary to take on some of his weight. By the next stop, Me-Wind-Em-Up and I had split up some of the cooking gear to lighten his load.

According the Ranger Station, we would have to make a river crossing to get to the South Fork Trail heading up the buttress to Willow Lake. The drainage from the creek coming down from Willow Lake was rather high in early summer, however the Rangers had said the crossing would be relatively easy. As we reached the river, the five of us took a break and walked around the area to find the best place to cross. The Frenchman and Bugle Bum decided to strip down and cross the river at a calm point that came up to their chest. The rest of us saw a place up river where we could throw our bags over and jump across. The 36-degree water does tend to entice one to look for a better way across.

Bam-Bam jumped the river across from us and with Me-Wind-Em-UP belaying me, i.e. holding on to the back of my shorts, I heaved the first bag across the river, with Bam-Bam guiding it to shore. I repeated this action with the second bag successfully, however, my foot fell in the water. So, I decided to walk down shore, stomping the water out of my boot before attempting to get the last bag, Me-Wind-Em-Up’s, over. As I was doing this, Bam-Bam and Me-Wind-Em-Up attempted to move the bag without me, misjudging the amount of weight they need to move. The bag fell into the river and started downstream. I took off running to a point where I could get into the water and hold on to some branches. I jumped in and the bag came barreling down the river hitting me flat in the chest. I was able to hold onto some branches while arresting the bag, however gallons of water were building up as I had created a human dam in the middle of this glacial, runoff river. After screaming for help, Me-Wind-Em-Up rushed over and plucked his bag out of the river. Seeing that I was already wet, I just waded across and got out on the other side looking like a purple twin-pop.

The first drama of the day brought some relief due to our secondary planning. Me-Wind-Em-Up had wet socks, so I gave him and extra pair. I had another extra pair that I needed since I was soaked. I was thankful that it was now 85-degrees out, so I was able to strip down to my boxers so my clothes could dry. We had ruined one of the Motorola radios, but the main worry at this point came as we tried to get Me-Wind-Em-Up’s camera to work. It was on, but it refused to focus (weeks later the camera ended up working perfectly again—nice work Canon!). So, looking like a Swiss-Alpine climber’s nightmare with my black mountaineering boots laced up, my purple-flannel boxers, no shirt and my pack, we started up the switchbacks of the buttress.

At the top of the switchbacks, right below the north-face of Birch Mountain (13.6k), we had our first encounter with the wet, slushy snow that would haunt us for the rest of the trip. Being that the snow was soft and mushy, our crampons had absolutely no effect. We had to traverse around the snow to reach the switchbacks leading to the top of the buttress. This off-trail route was filled with scree and talus and was slow going. Not only did we have to be careful of falling, but also it was important to minimize erosion impact. However, with a slight delay, we made it to the top of buttress reaching 9,000 ft.

The top of the buttress looks out over a basin in the middle of one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen in my life. With the buttress and Birch Mountain behind us, we were surrounded by a “U-shaped” jagged, ridge line that contained two 14k ft. peaks (Middle Palisade and Mt Sill) along with eleven peaks over 13k feet. Looking into this basin, we could see Willow Lake about 800 feet below and, according to the Porcella book, the creek running east that we would need to follow to Elinore Lake. We left the South Fork Trail and descended to the bottom of the basin where we ate lunch on some rocks just overlooking the lake. Off in the distance, at the top of Mt Sill, some gray, hazy clouds formed that come in like clockwork around 1-2 pm at high altitudes in the Sierras. The PB&J sandwich I ate tasted like heaven after logging 3,000 ft delta in altitude difference that morning.

Another harsh lesson would be learned at this point. We had one water-filter that Bam-Bam brought. It contained a number of independent pieces that, if lost, would affect its ability to, you know, work. The Frenchman was filling his water bottle, when a plastic piece, which connected the pump to the tube leading to the canister, popped off and fell in the river. We searched and searched and, like the ever cunning fellow, I found it in the bottom of the river lodged between some rocks. Dodging a bullet, we connected it and kept pumping water only to have the bloody thing pop off again never to be found again. The filter still worked as Bam-Bam rigged the tube to fit directly into the pump, however instead of it taking 20-30 seconds to fill a liter of water, it would take 7-10 minutes.

Leaving the trail, we would be bushwhacking the rest of way up to Elinore Lake. We crossed several smaller creaks that were draining into Willow Lake from various other lakes sitting at the bases of the peaks sitting on the ridgeline. After our hop-skips and jumps, we started up the creek line.

At this point and time, we came to the obvious conclusion that there is no way that Porcella had climbing Mt. Sill via this route. For the next three hours, we would run into cliff faces, snow covered couloirs, thick brush and talus fields impeding our way to Elinore Lake. Add this to the fact that the showers we saw off in the distance were now on top of us.

Towards the end of this section, there was a cliff face that encountered some of the most dangerous climbing I had done to date. This part was pure Class 4 and we were without a rope (for those of you unfamiliar with mountaineering ratings--Class 1 and 2 as easy walking; class 3 as scrambling-moderate-to-difficult; class 4 as difficult scrambling where a rope might be preferable, but mostly required; and class five for technical climbing requiring a rope). A fall would have left anyone of us in serious condition. Bam-Bam had a plastic rope used for our bear bag that he “belayed” us with as we hugged the cliff-face, with full packs on, across this perilous section. The rope was purely psychological, but it was enough to get us across without wetting our pants.

According to our topo, we were about 2 miles from Elinore Lake (about ¾ of the way there). We continued across a swampy, grassy area, only to come face-to-face with another 1000 ft. cliff. We wandered around for and hour and a half, crossing several creeks only to realize that the only option would be to cross the main creek, and follow the talus slopes up the valley, between the nameless mountain we were facing and Mount Gailey, which led to Elinore Lake. It was past 5 pm and we decided that we’d had enough. We would set up camp, at about 9,500 ft., and get an early start the next morning.

I learned an important lesson with regards to mountain cuisine--Bam-Bam, who absolutely loves to cook, demonstrated that you don’t have to eat food that tastes like your shoe when you’re camping. Since it was only a two-day climb, we had fresh veggies sautéed in olive oil served with angel hair pasta, pesto sauce (from a little packet) and mozzarella cheese. Not only did it taste like something I could order in my local North Beach Italian restaurant, it was light and added almost no additional weight to our packs. This meal was a huge morale booster.

After dinner, Bugle Bum derived his name by demonstrating what happens to the human body after finishing an REI-just-add-water-to-dirt-and-dried-noodles-and-call-it Beef Stroganoff-meal. As we set up camp for the evening, and swapped stories that always began with, “Can you believe how stupid and bad the directions for getting up the creek were?” a green cloud containing pure poison was being emitted from something I once thought was human within our group. Throughout the night, I slept easily knowing that we had an impenetrable force field to ward off any bears with late dinner plans. Unfortunately for the Frenchman, he had to share a tent with Bugle Bum, which he would later regret.

DAY TWO: 4 am rolled around, and we all dragged ourselves out into the cold to find that one of team members hadn’t had the best of nights--the Frenchman had to get up several times in the night to throw-up. After making several jokes about what Bugle Bum’s fumes had done to him, we knew that in all seriousness, the Frenchman was experiencing high-altitude sickness. After talking with him, he really wanted to give the summit a shot and, other than a headache and vomiting, he wasn’t displaying any symptoms of the more life-threatening high-altitude sicknesses such as HAPE or HACE. Being the good libertarian-ish guy that I am, I trusted the Frenchman’s judgment in his own self and felt he continue if he wanted to, and so did Bugle Boy. However, Bam-Bam took exception. We argued about the Frenchman’s ability to trust his own body, but in the end Bam-Bam would not budge. He wasn’t being the bad guy; he really cared about the Frenchman and didn’t want to see anything bad happen to him on the mountain. We all knew it, but we also knew that if the Frenchman stayed behind, at least one person would have to miss the summit to take him down to a lower altitude. In the end, Bugle Bum decided to stay and the rest of us got our gear together to begin our summit attempt. We settled our differences with a hug and would call each other when we got to Glacier Lodge to make sure everyone made it down safely.

Bam-Bam, Me-Wind-Em-Up and I crossed the river and slogged up the long talus field that covered the north slopes of Temple Crag. Within the first 20-minutes, we hit the wet-soft snow that be the obstacle that caused me to reveal an extremely ugly side of myself.

Since we were crossing talus, each step you took was completely unpredictable. You didn’t know if you were standing on a rock, or a bush or 6-foot hole between boulders. So movement would go like this: step, step, FALL—step, FALL—step, step, step, step…...step, FALL—FALL—FALL—step, step--etc. Our crampons were useless over this terrain; what we needed were snowshoes. As this was occurring, I kept repeating the Porcella description of the trail over and over in my head. This lead me to mumbling fucks and shits under my breath in complete frustration over what I was now realizing would be a failed attempt at the top. The mumbling of swearwords turned into all out cursing every time I fell into one of those holes. Bam-Bam and Me-Wind-Em-Up were experiencing the same frustrations, however they tried to laugh it off and keep it in perspective--I, on the other hand, did no such thing. Then my general swearing and cussing turned into negative comments about anything from the snow, to the rangers, to the book, to lacking snowshoes. I was being a major drag on my team.

We eventually made it to Elinore Lake around 11:00 am. Sitting just above 11,000 ft, staying true to our decision to summit no later than 1:00 pm, we decided it would be best to turn around (even though it looked like a straight-forward climb to the top). We decided to take about an hour to just hangout up there, nap, eat, bask in the sun, take pictures, etc. This would be important in helping me to gain some perspective.

Me-Wind-Em-Up and I ended up lying on the top of a huge boulder, absorbing nature in all its majesty. It was about 65-degrees and the only noises we heard came from a slight breeze and what sounded like hundreds of birds singing cheerfully. Me-Wind-Em-Up, who happens to be one of my closest friends, broke the silence when he said, “You know, we are really lucky to be up here, and I know we didn’t make it to the summit, but just look at this place. How many people will ever sit in this place and see this amazing picture? I wish my parents could see this, but they will never get the chance.” At that point, the feeling I had when I first looked into that basin across that ridgeline came rushing back. That feeling met head-on with that fussy, little whiner that bitched and complained up that snow path. The initial feeling of elation changed to an overwhelming sense of embarrassment. I choked a few tears back, smiled and forgave myself for being a dummy. The rest of the trip would see me fighting back any of those urges and frustrations, and that moment that I spent up there with my buddy has become one of the most important lessons learned in my life. Unfortunately, I’m not yet smart enough to figure these things out beforehand, but I thank my friend for being understanding to me.

We headed back down and packed up our camp. This time, we decided to avoid the creek and follow the high ground to the South Fork Trail—in doing so, we found the route that would take us back up to Elinore Lake the following year. As we walked across, we looked up one of the slopes and saw several ski-trails in the snow; we laughed about our buddies being able to get at least a few runs in to justify the weight they carried on their backs. The rest of the trip was uneventful as we cruised back down, telling stories (fish-tales) and quoting movies. It was a beautiful day and our conversation started to vear towards describing that big, fat steak we'd eat once we returned to town.

We made it back to the car around 4 pm and cruised down to Rossi’s, in Big Pine, seeing the most welcoming sign for weary pilgrims that said, “Steak & Spaghetti—OPEN.” Everyone was down safe and some hard lessons were learned, but with good friends and some of the most beautiful landscape in the world, the trip, which was the least successful that I'd been on, was judged a great one by the three dirty, carnivorous, steak eaters occupying a dark booth at Rossi’s.

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Posted by 10 fingers 6 strings at January 17, 2005 02:02 PM | TrackBack