| The Split Mountain Epic Trip Report |
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| The Split Mountain Epic   | 
| Page Type: Trip Report Location: California, United States, North America Lat/Lon: 37.02080°N / 118.4214°W Date Climbed/Hiked: Aug 2, 2002 | Page By: Andinistaloco Created/Edited: Sep 7, 2004 / Jun 13, 2007 Object ID: 169593 Hits: 1684 Loading... Page Score: 86.45% - 3 Votes Loading... Vote: Log in to vote |
THE SPLIT MOUNTAIN EPIC
a semi-funny, mostly true tale
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The day of the climb dawned clear and hot. In fact, it was far too hot for dawn. I rolled over in the back of the truck and squinted bleary-eyed at my watch: nine fifteen. Why hadn't my alarm gone off? I didn't know. Ah well. I wasn't going to call the climb off just on account of being, oh, four hours late or so. So I packed quickly, locked the truck, and chugged up the canyon to the west. A half-decent trail followed it.
It grew much hotter as I went on. After a few hours I reached a small lake, and then the shores of Red Lake itself. A couple of tents were here, but no people. No animals either. It might have been a postcard I was walking through.
Now the imposing east side of Split Mountain soared into view, the two summits stretching high above the lake. A steep gully carved upward to the notch between the summits – the Clyde couloir, named after the late, legendary Norman Clyde. I headed for the St. Jean couloir, just north of Clyde’s route. While I’d have preferred the Clyde couloir, my late start made the shorter route a better choice. So I zigzagged up a steep field of talus below the St. Jean, where the dying remains of a glacier separated me from the couloir. In my rushed packing I'd somehow forgotten crampons, which meant that I had to kick steps with my leathers – not exactly the recommended technique. It wasn't difficult but my toes did get a bit numb.
Another obstacle confronted me at the top of the snow – the vestiges of a bergschrund. Not terribly wide, but it did prevent me from exiting the glacier directly into the colouir. In two places I could stand on the thin upper lip of the ice and barely reach the rock, but in these places the rock was dripping with recently melted snow. Plus, crossing that gap – the bottom was about twenty feet down – looked dicey. I scanned the cliffs to the sides of the couloir and saw what looked like a line heading up the north side.
But once on the cliff I began to wish I’d gone the other way. The holds were there, but the rock was crumbling and untrustworthy, loosened by the winter’s ice and wet from recent snowmelt. The small ledges which had looked so comforting from below were covered with slushy gravel. In a few places I had to use my ax to move up the rock, lacking a dry hold. Slowly, clinging to the crumbling face, I edged left and jumped the last three feet into the couloir.
I looked up the couloir, which didn’t seem too rough… it was steep, but I didn’t see any technical problems yet. And it was only two or so – I was behind schedule but not badly. Up I went.
It didn’t take long for the technical problems to appear. Had the couloir been composed of solid, dry rock, I could have scrambled up it quickly. Had it been filled with snow the going would likewise have been simpler. Unfortunately the snow which had graced the lower couloir in June was now gone, leaving wet, loose scree underfoot. When it got steep I felt that I was clawing my way up a mound of dripping gravel. Often I had to angle off to the right or left to find better climbing. When I did get back into the couloir, the going was less dangerous but just as difficult and frustrating. The stones churned under my feet as I went up, giving the feeling that I was walking on a treadmill. Sometimes I slid back further than I stepped up. And a constant barrage of sharp little rocks assaulted my shins.
I was finally getting more comfortable with the wet rock climbing when snow and ice began to visit the couloir. Some I was able to avoid, but at other times I had no choice but to stomp up it, kicking steps again with toes that had only recently regained sensation. Soon I reached a thin finger of hard snow stretching down the middle of the couloir, leaving dripping gaps between itself and the cliffs to the sides. I tried heading up one of these for a while, found the going impossible, then angled up to the snow and clambered onto its crest. Once again I was looking at a grim fall if I should slip. Every couple feet I slammed my ice ax into the snow before me like a man trying to kill a durable vampire.
Soon I was back on the rock and scree, fighting my way upward. The sun slid westward across the sky as I went; shadows lengthened around me. The couloir seemed endless; each time the angle shifted slightly I expected to glimpse the summit ridge, but all I saw was more of the couloir. There was no way to tell how far I had to go. Suddenly a familiar rattling boomed above me. Rockfall!
I looked up as long as I dared, hoping to gauge where the rocks were headed – and knowing there was a very good chance they’d come straight down the couloir. I stared up until I saw the first stones hurtling down, then ducked my head and crouched below the meager protection of my helmet and backpack. Rocks hissed by me, some the size of my fist. There was a crunching sound, and the large rocks were followed by a rain of smaller stuff. One shard banged into my helmet just before the fusillade stopped.
After a long wait, I checked out my helmet; a new scratch had joined the collage on top. The rockfall had stopped though, so up I went. Now the couloir narrowed, and the way up was blocked by a huge chockstone. The chockstone went okay, but there was more rock work above it. I was moving slower by now, resting more frequently. Still, I wasn’t too worried about being able to complete the couloir – outside of finding a ridiculously hard wall I could still pull it. The main problem was that of time… 4:30 p.m. at my last check. At this hour, I should already be heading down. Instead, I was pushing upward with the summit nowhere in sight. Well… I had a headlamp and could hike out in the dark. If memory served – and it should, since I’d been awake and outside at five in the morning two days ago – there was also a full moon.
The angle of the couloir now improved, but I’d now slowed down enough that even this didn’t allow me to make much faster progress. I heard rockfall again, but this time it was off to my left – to the south. After about a hundred feet the couloir opened wide…
…and I could see the summit ridge.
I was soon there. After a few choice curses and one picture, I took leave of the accursed couloir and ambled up toward the top. There were no more technical problems, and I reached the summit of Split Mountain about half an hour later, at 6 p.m. I didn’t linger. It was painfully obvious that I’d be heading out in the dark. The burning question now was: which way should I head out?
Going back the way I’d come in was not an option. However, I knew at least two couloirs slashed up the mountain north of the St. Jean; I’d seen them from below. Both were shorter.
The summit faded behind as I hurried back down the ridge. My hurry still wasn’t very fast, and I made a silent promise to get in better condition for my next effort. Making new resolutions is always a sign of trouble on a climb. When things get truly horrifying, some climbers even vow to quit entirely. I’d personally only offered to cease climbing once, on the soaked and holdless face of a decayed spire in southern Arizona... I'd been leading a loose 5.9 or so when a freak rainstorm blew in and drenched everything. It was technically a bargain – along the lines of “God, if you get me out of this one, I will never rock climb again.” Since I’d extricated myself from the situation without any divine intervention, I figured the deal was null and void.
Making good time, I passed my couloir and soon reached the next one. It was a vast improvement over the St. Jean; I could look clear to the bottom and saw no snow or technical problems. Wasting no time, I descended. Even if it was only 3rd class, I didn’t particularly want to be in there come nightfall.
This couloir was also full of loose rock, as I’d expected, but wasn’t anywhere near as steep as the other. Mostly I was able to scramble and scree-ski down it, filling my boots with rocks. Occasionally I had to use my hands, but generally got by with just my feet and trekking poles. I alit near the glacier around sunset and hurried toward Red Lake, shimmering faintly below me. The light turned orange, red, dimmed, faded, and finally went out entirely.
Well… at least I’d done something right on the climb: I’d remembered the headlamp. I pulled it out of my backpack and turned it on.
Nothing.
This was impossible! The bulb was new and I’d rechecked the damned thing just three days ago. Slowly I felt around on the headlamp, seeking the source of the problem. Maybe a wire had worked loose, or….
Suddenly my fingers grated over jagged shards of plastic. The bulb and front of the lamp were broken… smashed to pieces. The crunching sound I’d heard up in the couloir came back to me.
Wonderful.
When was moonrise? I hunkered down in the boulder field, arms around my knees. I wrapped my legs up in the shell, threw on my fleece, and wound my extra shirt around my head. Then I jammed my helmet back on over that. Despite these efforts, I soon began to get very cold. Wedging myself into a lower crevice between boulders failed to help matters any. At length I decided that the only way to stay warm would be to get moving. So off I went, feeling my way through the boulder field with the trekking poles.
The going was excruciatingly slow, and every time I tried to speed it up I’d slip or roll an ankle. Feeling my way forward like this, it took me another hour to reach the lake, barely visible by starlight. I did manage to locate a path occasionally, but never could get going too fast. So I never got warm again either. Frequently I’d sit down, hoping to find a warmer spot to rest and wait for moonrise. But I only managed to catch a few minutes’ sleep here and there. Violent shivering always woke me up before long. So off I’d wobble again, poles waving before me like some sort of weird zombie hiker.
The moon finally showed up around five, a full hour before the sun. By then I was very much in need of it. I had lost the path again and was thrashing around on a hillside covered with head-high vegetation and a lot of running water. I’d already soaked both legs to mid-calf but was beyond caring. Even moonlight couldn’t reveal the path to me, but I did realize how close I was to the canyon floor. After another half-hour of merciless flogging by the underbrush, and another stomp into ankle-deep water, I reached the bottom. From there on out it was easier… I simply followed the canyon to the trail. Then I walked the trail east out of the canyon as the sun rose, painting the mountains red behind me.
I stumbled to my truck just after nine, more than 24 hours after I’d begun the adventure. Thankfully the keys were still in my backpack – had they been on Split Mountain somewhere, I feel that I might have started to cry. I popped open the driver’s side door and wrenched my sodden boots off. Then I grabbed for the water.
I was too tired to stretch, dehydrated and hungry as hell. My legs looked and felt like they’d been flayed. My left knee, recipient of several surgeries, was the size of a small pumpkin. But I knew a bit of rest would cure these ills. And since I still had a lot of time left, I could move straight on to another mountain.
I reached for the atlas. What climbs were north of here?
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Palisades > Split Mountain > The Split Mountain Epic
