The south side route up Mount Hood is considered by braggarts and able mountaineers to be easy, yet it is both strenuous and, at times, a little scary. An early struggle is the alpine start. The summit day eve, my friend Barn and I hiked partway up the mountain and camped so we could sleep to a luxurious 4am. The climb became good old, hard working fun once our adrenaline got pumping, the breakfast Excedrin started working and pink light coated distant peaks in cotton candy, which gave my eyes a merry roust.
The most frightening bit of the climb was on the descent, and it was not due to the mountain. On the narrowest section of the steepest part, an inversely-funneling snow chute that runs to the summit ridge, I became stuck during the descent behind a young guy with nylon gym pants and soft leather boots, sans-crampons. Now, Mount Hood is a very popular climb, probably the most heavily climbed glaciated peak in all of North America. We’d seen a couple dozen other people that morning, but all had been at least marginally competent and properly equipped. Not this guy. Every step he took was a nightmare. He’d plant his ice axe into the snow and flail his boots for purchase. Most steps he slipped, using his axe to stop a long fall that would end in a lucky snow runout, an unlucky boulder runout or a tumble into a crevasse. I gently advised him a fall could be fatal, and asked him to move over so I could get around. My next few feet down, until the chute widened, were a nervy dance to the view of his slipping rubbery soles.
The photo is of Barn making his way down to the Hog’s Back, that curving ridge. Mount Jefferson is visible on the horizon. The sky was a dark blue and dreamy up there.
