Our three headlamps pan the steep snow ramp like searchlights as we work upward in the dark. The sweep of light reveals a craggy wall to our left and sun-cupped snow disappearing into the night above. The scrape of our crampons is the only sound in the dead air. We move slow to conserve energy and allow careful crampon placement, wary of a long fall on the firm snow.
Without warning a rock the size of a softball hums out of the darkness above and slams into my thigh.
Read MoreWe’re perched near the spine of the North Cascades, miles of trail-less wilderness surrounds us. The day is calm and peaceful. It’s early June and the hiking trails below tree line are teeming with weekenders from Seattle, but up here the mountains are locked in snow. With two-thirds of the Ptarmigan Traverse behind us, we’ve yet to see another soul.
Read More2,000 feet left to climb as we make the left onto Timberline road and stand on the pedals, coaxing laden bikes upward with unwilling legs. We’re moving at a snail’s pace, burning with the waste of the climb from Portland. A blast of upper-mountain wind whips across the road.
Read More“Shit, shit, shit!” I’m looking down at my gloved right hand clutching my whippet, the ice ax blade jammed into the névé ice of the slope. I want so badly to be anywhere but here. I take a shallow breath. Look at the right edges of my skis, biting ever so slightly into the slope. I grip the whippet tighter, trying not to think of what will happen if my edges blow over 2,000 feet of iced over cliffs.
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