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2007
Mugs Stump Award Winners:
Wilkinson/Gilmore/Doucette—South
Face of the Fin, Mt. Foraker
Once
upon a time, in the forties, fifties, and sixties, way
back in the dark ages of alpinism before modern ice climbing
had even been invented, Alaskan climbing was all about gnarly
glacier travel. Go ahead, take a look at Waterman’s
High Alaska: those old-timers knew how to get through some
heinous looking terrain….
These
were my thoughts as I orbited high above the Yentna Glacier
on a bright spring day in May, 2006. I was staring one
of the Alaska Range’s best kept secrets, the 4,000
foot South Face of the Fin, right in the face. The Fin is
technically a sub-summit of Mount Foraker; it’s only
recorded ascent was part of the epic first ascent of Foraker’s
massive Southwest Buttress—an old school route if
ever there was one. The South Face had terrain vaguely reminiscent
of the ultra-classic North Buttress of Hunter or South Face
of Denali, except it was arrayed in a tight, inhospitable
concave cirque. But it wasn’t the wall that really
worried me, it was the approach: a virtually impenetrable
icefall blocked the flow of the Yentna glacier five miles
below the wall. Between the icefall and the wall, the valley
was threatened by countless hanging seracs and avalanche
slopes. The place made other notoriously scary Alaska glaciers
I had visited—The N.E. fork of the Kahilta and the
East Fork of the Tokositna—seem benign in comparison.
Taken altogether, the Fin was a challenge like none I had
seen, combining new-school technical terrain with an old
school, balls-to-the-wall glacier approach and descent, in
a true wilderness setting. I seriously doubted if it was
possible to even reach the start of the climbing. But it
was precisely that kind of uncertainty that captivated me.
I had to give it a try.
A year later, Ben Gilmore, Peter Doucette, and I arrived
on the Yentna Glacier. Thanks in part to the support of the
Mugs Stump Award, I was going to have my chance at trying
the Fin Wall. Paul Roderick brilliantly on-sighted the dodgy,
wind-cupped snowpack to safely deposit us just outside of
the Wilderness Boundary that bisects the glacier. The next
day we ferried loads four miles up glacier and established
out basecamp about a mile and half below the infamous ice-fall.
Over the last couple days of travel, Ben had caught a vicious
little cold, so he rested at basecamp while Peter and I re-coned
the approach to the ice fall. It looked pretty damn sketchy
to us, though it did seem possible to skirt the feature on
the lower, avalanche exposed slopes of peak 10,300 to the
west.
Over
the next few days we watched the icefall and the wall,
while further exploring the area by making two first ascents
on peaks surrounding basecamp. Peter and I first went for
a warm-up climb on the Northeast face Peak 8,900, located
a short distance from BC. The 3,500 foot face was mainly
steep snow, with a couple short mixed pitches that went at
M5. It seems that we were likely the first party to ever
summit this peak, and this being Pete’s first Alaskan
climb, he got the honors of naming it “Rogue Peak”.
Descending down a long snow gully to the south, Pete triggered
a memorable windslab avalanche (In general we found the snow
pack on the Yentna to be thinner and more unstable than elsewhere
in the range—more continental than maritime). Two
days later, Ben was feeling better and so we decided to go
investigate the alluring, Himalayan looking ridge at the
head of the Northwest fork of the Yentna, for a final tune-up.
We had taken to calling this stunning, multi-summited ridge “the
MANtok Group”. At dawn on a perfect Alaskan morning
we soloed up a thin, winding couloir that stretched down
the east prow of the Mantoks’ northern summit. We climbed
ninety percent of the route unroped, only belaying for two
or three pitches of mixed climbing (again, M5).
Feeling acclimatized to the area and ready, we packing for
the main event. Our plan was to run the gauntlet past the
icefall early in the morning, bivy as close to the wall as
we safely could, and then try to tackle the climb to the
summit of the Fin the next day. It was hard to know exactly
what we would find, scoping the climb from eight miles away.
But it was clear that the upper Yentna would not be a safe
place during a storm: we knew once we were past the ice fall
we were committed.
Twice
we woke up at 3 AM, only to call it off because the weather
looked unstable. Finally, we were greeted by clear, cold
stars. We skied through the lower icefall to gain those
slopes to the west, than took off our skis and carried them
up a 40 degree snow couloir (heavy packs!), traversed over
some cliff bands before dropping back down to the glacier.
We had circumvented the icefall. Skis and skins back on,
we moved towards the face, generally trying to eye-ball a
line in the middle of the glacier, as safe from serac fall
as possible. We stopped to discuss our options about a mile
before the wall, but didn’t feel quite good enough
about the spot to pitch camp. Ahead, the enormous serac that
forms the lower right side of the face loomed threateningly.
It was off to the races: our only choice was to sprint past
this objective hazard and find a bivy at the base of the
wall. With Peter in the lead, we put our heads down and moved
at a purposefully pace, not quite a sprint. After a hasty
stop to cash our skis, we post-holed directly under the serac,
moving up and left to gain elevation and get above the deposition
zone as quickly as possible. Finally, at the very bershrund,
we stopped and caught our breath. For the first time since
we past the ice fall I felt totally safe from objective danger.
We scouted for the best spot to install our bivy, finally
deciding to pitch our tent about a hundred meters above the
schrund under a steep rock wall. We were resting in our sleeping
bags by 2 PM.
The
weather grew more unstable as the afternoon progressed.
It was your classic Alaskan snow squall—not very
thick cloud coverage; just the faint whispering of snow flakes
on the tent fabric. Unfortunately, the precipitation was
enough for the wall to start shedding, and the concave nature
of the face above us began to serve up some impressive spindrift.
By 4 PM Pete and I were outside, shoveling constantly to
keep the tent from being pushed off the mountain. I decided
to begin work on a more solid shelter. Wet and tired, we
moved into our new cave accommodations by 8 PM. So much for
a peaceful afternoon of rest.
The
alarm went off at 3.30. Ben poked his head outside, announced
that the sky was clear, and immediately started the stove.
I quietly thanked god for such solid partners. After our
little spindrift episode the previous evening, I’m
not sure if I would have had the motivation to get going
on my own.
I
took the first block of the day—a tricky mixed
pitch got us on to the wall proper, followed by two pitches
of moderate ice and some devious route finding up steep,
rocky snow slopes. We were aiming to work our way right into
the prominent couloir that rises from the left edge of that
big serac. Pete took over after a while, found the couloir,
and we were soon simul climbing into the steep corner feature
that marked the top of the couloir. It seemed obvious that
Ben’s block out of this dead end would be the crux.
Thankfully, the steep granite wall was split by a perfect
chimney system. This 600 foot feature dished up some awesome
thin-ice and mixed climbing that reminded us of the classic
winter terrain found on our home crag, Cathedral Ledge. As
had happened the previous day, the weather slowly deteriorated
as the afternoon wore on.
After
four pitches, we excited right onto the steep snow ramp
that we hoped would lead to the final exit slopes from
the face. I took over the lead again, knowing that a leg-numbing
thousand feet of terrain still separated us from the top
of the wall. We climbed through frequent squalls; one minute
it’d be snowing and we couldn’t see anything,
the next the skies would crack enough to see the Yentna far
below through a window of cloud. By the time we cut through
the final band of rocks and began the final steep slog to
the ridge, I was crashing pretty hard. I put my head down
and focused on getting to the summit ridge, where we could
atleast rest and brew up. I crested the onto the Southwest
Buttress of Foraker, some three hundred feet below the summit
of the Fin, at 9.30 PM. A lenticular cloud hung over the
South Summit of Foraker; a thick bank of clouds washed over
the rest of the range to the east.
Ben
and Peter joined me, we sat on our packs and got the stove
going, and began to discuss what to do next. Ben wanted
to keep going and tag the summit of the Fin, Peter wanted
to begin the descent, and I felt pretty ambivalent about
the whole thing. As we melted snow, the weather moved in
and out. We hadn’t received a single forecast since
we left Talkeetna. In fact, we hadn’t had any communication
with the outside world at all.
By
the time we had re-filled all our water bottles and eaten
a pack of instant oatmeal, we had gradually came to consensus
decision to descend. I won’t speak for Ben or Peter,
but for me, it was ultimately the commitment of the approach
that tipped the scales. Even in a full-on storm, it is relatively
feasible to rappel a steep alpine face. But to cross miles
of avalanche and serac threatened glacier, through heavily
crevassed terrain – that was not a risk I would willingly
accept.
Ben
took over for the midnight rappels. It was spindrifting
at first, then the weather seemed to abate. A stuck rope
added an few extra hours to the descent, but we made it
back to our cave by eight AM, about twenty six hours after
leaving it. We had a quick brew and fell asleep for three
hours. By the time we woke up in the afternoon it was beginning
to snow again. We hastily loaded up and sprinted under that
serac again to reach our skis. The rest of the descent—skiing
roped up with heavy loads in flat light, carrying our skis
up and over the cliffband traverse, down climbing the approach
couloir, skiing through the lower ice fall—well,
it was about what you’d expect. We were worked by the
time we reached the glacier below the icefall and it began
to snow in earnest. We returned to basecamp at around 11
PM. By noon the next day, three new feet of snow had fallen.
Among
some Alaska Range devotees, our ascent of the South Face
of the Fin rekindled the perennial debate as to whether
a summitless climb should be considered complete. I won’t
hold any punches here: our original goal was to climb the
face to the summit of the Fin, so by our own standards, we
failed. Still, when I look back on the experience, I am proud
of what we did. When Paul landed three days later to pick
us up, I left the Yentna feeling complete.
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