"Oh, Man! I am really psyched about this!" With that, Paul Roderick bid us good luck, climbed back into his Cessna 185, and flew away.

Excitement and uncertainty are always part of the equation for glacier pilots landing on the Tokositna Glacier beneath Mt. Huntington's dramatic West Face, and Paul, one of Alaska's best glacier pilots, was greatly relieved to find the snow conditions that mid-April morning to be perfect for landing and take-off.

"Almost 10 feet of new snow piled up, and our outing became a survival ordeal at times, just trying to keep the tent above ground. We suffered mentally as well..."

My partner, Joe Puryear, and I had reason to be psyched as well. We were back to attempt the fabled Harvard Route on Mt. Huntington after an unsuccessful attempt in 1998. This attempt had ended after 5 days of struggling desperately through horrendous depth hoar snow conditions. I still recall vividly the mountain shaking as we watched a previous camp, a place we had judged safe, and the location of a cache of gear, which included our snowshoes and radio, being wiped away by a monster avalanche. This event dealt us a psychological blow and provided a wake up call to abandon the attempt. Good thing too. Within hours of arriving at base camp, an eight-day storm arrived, during which time the wind and snowfall reached a level neither of us had believed possible. Almost 10 feet of new snow piled up, and our outing became a survival ordeal at times, just trying to keep the tent above ground. We suffered mentally as well, though our many years of previous suffering together in the Alaska Range provided plenty of experience from which to draw upon.

So here we were, back for another try, and already battle-hardened. In the bitter cold of March, Joe, Lisa Roderick, and I had attempted Mt. Russell, a peak situated in the far west end of the Alaska Range. A beautiful and impressive peak, Mt. Russell has apparently only been summitted about 5 times. Our 6 day venture became a 14 day starvation epic. Wracked by constant storms, our efforts largely revolved around an all-out, one-day push from base camp to climb the peak's north ridge. This proved futile; we were confronted by dangerous avalanche conditions, which made progress suicidal. Further, the route had apparently changed since an ascent the previous spring by Talkeetnans Colby Coombs, Mike Woods, and Meg Perdue. Snow conditions aside, the route looked climbable, but not in a one-day push in the 12 hour days of the Alaskan March. The ridge presented a formidable array of cornices and ice cliffs, which looked, for us anyway, to provide at least 2-3 days of work. We sat in the tent watching our food supply grow increasingly meager, with no high pressure in sight. It was a great relief when Paul was finally able to get into the Yentna Glacier and bring us out.

"...we dug a spacious snow cave at 10,000 feet and groveled for 2 days..."

After a few days of fattening up, having lost 10 pounds, Joe and I flew into attempt Mt. Hunter's South Ridge. This route, first climbed by Johnny Waterman and friends in 1973, had received only one other ascent, in 1986. Difficult and committing, it climbs a long icefall, a steep mixed face, and finally traverses the long South Ridge proper. This section includes the famous "Happy Cowboy" pinnacles, a ½ mile long section of exposed cornices and knife-edge ridge so sharp the climber must literally straddle the ridge, with little to no protection, and thousands of feet of exposure on both sides. Following this is an 800 foot ice arete leading to Hunter's South summit. Since retreating the route is not an option, the climb would involve a carry-over and descent by another route, which for us was planned to be the West Ridge. Our plan was to leave the top of the icefall with 9 days of food and fuel. Our packs would weigh less than 40 pounds. We approached with caution and awaited a spell of good weather.

We never got it. Climbing the 2500-foot icefall, we dug a spacious snow cave at 10,000 feet and groveled for 2 days, as the weather remained unsettled. We played around on the lower face one day, exploring some of the rock gendarmes, and discovered some of Johnny Waterman's 26 year old blue polypropylene fixed line. Finally, tired of waiting and being scared, we launched ourselves onto the initial 2000-foot face of steep ice and mixed climbing in questionable weather. After pulling an athletic move over the overhanging ice at the bergschrund and climbing several hundred feet of 55 degree blue ice, the clouds suddenly enveloped us and the snow came down. Spindrift avalanches poured over us. The ice, which had up to that point been fantastic, suddenly became airy and rotten. Tool and crampon placements became tenuous and insecure. I tried in vain to fire in an ice screw, 200 feet out with zero pro between us. Nothing would stick. The weather was nuking us. The writing was on the wall. Joe, freezing below me, implored me to come down and for us to bail, and this met with no argument whatsoever. We retreated to the cave for the night, and eventually to the landing site on the southwest fork of the Tokositna Glacier at 7400 feet, where we endured almost a week of storms and encroaching insanity. Thank God Joe and I get along! We had more than a month of time left to climb before returning to our jobs as climbing rangers on Mt. Rainier in Washington State. Once back in Talkeetna, the option of cutting our losses and going to Yosemite was discussed. Alas, somehow, we decided to go back to Huntington. And so it was. As Paul flew off into the clear, cold morning, Joe and I walked around on the ankle deep snow of the Tokositna and grinned; the snow conditions were clearly orders of magnitude better than the previous year.

Last year, we had made the mistake of bivying near the base of the Stegosaurus. This area was in the runout zone from the main west face of Huntington. It would have been hard to predict that a ground scraping, 8-10 foot crown slab avalanche would obliterate the entire basin a few days after our passing and camping here, but it did, and we were now a lot wiser. If snow conditions would not permit us to climb out of the basin in one day, as in the previous year, then we would abandon the climb. Before the climb, in Talkeetna, we had gotten our packs down to 30 pounds each, including 5 days of food and fuel. We even customized our Marmot Asylum bivy tent by cutting off almost 2 pounds of unnecessary buckles, straps, mosquito netting, and the zipper attachments for a vestibule we wouldn't bring anyway. In less than 2 hours, we reached the base of the steep ice couloir which leads to the top of the Stegosaurus. This had taken nearly 5 hours the year before, so bad was the snow. The original party had climbed the Stegosaurus proper, but this corniced and tenuous ridge would add considerable time to the route.

The ice couloir that we climbed lies on the upper end of the Stegosaurus and ends atop it. It begins with a tricky bergschrund crossing, leading to an 80-foot step of 75-80 degree water ice. Above this, 800 feet of 50-60 degree snow reaches the base of the "Alley," a steep snow gully. I led up the steep ice step, on beautiful ice, set a screw belay, and brought Joe up. From here, we simul-climbed the remaining gully. I mined through a vertical snow step atop the Alley and pulled over onto the "Upper Park".

This steep and exposed snow slope narrows to a corniced ridge, which butts into the towering cliffs of the west face, where the real climbing begins. Against a large granite boulder situated near the base of the face, we excavated a small tent platform. The weather by now had begun to change again; the southerly flow on Denali had swung back to a northerly flow, signifying an end to the brief high pressure. The forecast, however, had been for only minor disturbances, and for this reason we had committed to make the attempt with crossed fingers. As we anchored the tent and our gear (for a dropped item would slide into a 4000 foot abyss below), the sky became a dim overcast and a barely perceptible flurry of snowflakes settled down from above.

We had several hours of daylight left, but above us lay the most difficult climbing of the route: 1000 feet of steep and difficult rock, ice, and mixed ground. We wanted a full day for this. The previous year, we had succeeded in climbing all the way through this section, in the end surmounting the infamous "Nose" pitch, supposedly the crux. This pitch proved much easier than the climbing below, involving a 50 foot high, very overhanging wall split by a diagonal, nearly hand-sized crack, somewhat awkward but A1, and topped by a slab loaded with deep snow. Above this, the angle of the mountain kicked back considerably. Although the climbing above was still quite serious, nothing above would be as difficult as what we had done below. Facing grave avalanche danger above, and not trusting that the weather could possibly hold after 5 days of stellar conditions, we rappelled off, content with our effort. And as our weather concerns proved valid, it remains one of the best decisions we ever made. We forced down a freeze-dried meal and settled in for the night. Our spirits were high, having accomplished in 5 hours what had taken 2 full days the previous year.

As dawn broke over the mountains, I reluctantly squirmed out of my warm sleeping bag and reached out of the tent to begin the process of brewing the morning's hot drinks. The stove fired up slowly, and I was almost happy to hear it struggling to boil the water so I could snooze in my bag a little longer. But the time came to get moving. It was overcast, with the same, ever-so-slight flurries, and no wind. There appeared to be a stagnant cloudy haze settled into the range. Visibility remained reasonable, with Mt. Hunter and most of Denali showing. No major low pressure systems had been in the Gulf of Alaska as of the previous day, so we were not overly concerned. The current conditions were not ideal for the difficult climbing we faced today, but we also clearly felt it would be doable. Our goal was to reach the base of the Nose pitch, where four funky old bolts and the huge overhang above would provide a somewhat sheltered bivouac. There was a catch, however; between here and the Nose, bivy sites were scant. Those that did exist, such as the improbable, icy ledge we had carved out in the most preposterous location the previous year, were extremely exposed, and in a storm would be a certain death trap.

"On one such glance, my life flashed before me...what I saw, instead of the rock and ice above me, was an inferno of white, barreling straight down on top of me. Avalanche!"

So, trusting our skills, previous knowledge of the route, and our light packs, we tackled the wall. We decided to have each of us lead the same pitches we had led last year, feeling our previous experiences on them would cut time. The first pitch was my lead. This pitch might be 5.8 or 5.9 in rock shoes on a dry day. With snow all over the steep rock and the cracks packed with ice, it was now A2. I had freed much of this pitch in crampons the previous year, but the cracks were now much icier and there would be none of that this time. I fixed the rope for Joe after reaching the anchor, which included old fixed pins; some of these I imagined possibly belonged to Roberts' first ascent team. I could not erase from my mind the specter of team member Ed Bernd, who died rappelling from this very spot. The snowfall, though still light, was now increasing somewhat as Joe began the second lead. The snow was beginning to accumulate on the rock. I could also tell that above about 13,000 feet, it was totally clear.

Joe led the pitch remarkably; difficult mandatory free moves over rock slabs led to a vertical crack laced with rusty, creaky old fixed pins. Aiding through these, Joe could only imagine he was as light as a feather as the pitons flexed and shifted beneath his weight. A hard free move out of his aiders led to steep climbing on soft snow with rock underneath, and eventually a belay just above a huge snow block stuck to a boulder.

The real story of this pitch was not in the climbing, however. Shortly after Joe had finished the aid section, he was slowly picking his way up the slope above. I stood idly belaying at the tiny stance, shuffling from foot to foot to keep warm. Though I couldn't see Joe, who was above and around a corner, I took the occasional casual glance upward for a change of scenery. On one such glance, my life flashed before me...what I saw, instead of the rock and ice above me, was an inferno of white, barreling straight down on top of me. Avalanche! At the instant I was certain I would be scraped off the mountain I hunched down and braced for the worst. As I was pummeled with chunks of snow, I waited for the huge tug on the rope that I was sure would come in the form of Joe falling. But it didn't come. And, as the seconds passed, I began to realize that the avalanche was mostly spindrift and powder, albeit a great deal of it. Joe and I frantically called out to each other to be sure we were alright. Joe, in fact, had been just off to the side of it as it swept by.

I don't know what compelled us to keep going at that point, perhaps the feeling that this was the worst we could expect, and really, these would be more of an annoyance than a danger. Unless, of course, it started snowing harder. We threw the dice and continued.

I jumared the pitch. As I neared the anchor, I was attempting to maneuver myself around the snowblock, when the 5 foot thick chunk suddenly broke loose and rolled right into my arms. I fortunately was able to turn with it and throw it off me and down the face.

The next pitch, though technically quite easy, had the previous year involved 1-½ hours of tunneling through 3-4 feet of 50-60 depth hoar snow over rock slabs. This year, however, it took me all of 15 minutes thanks to firm snow. But half way up I took a detour. Last year, the pitch after this one had been a scary, right leaning 1 foot wide ramp plastered with a veneer of verglas, with sketchy, marginal protection on mixed free and aid: tied off knifeblades and arrows in icy seams. Joe still calls it the hardest pitch he's ever led. Not wanting to repeat it, I climbed right and below this ramp, having found in study of aerial photos, and in reconnaissance on our rappels the previous year, a possibly easier or at least better-protected crux pitch in an ice-filled chimney. I made some delicate moves, front pointing on snowy granite slab, around a corner and into the base of a deep chimney/gully which took a sharp dogleg right about 40 feet above. I am almost certain that this is the way Roberts' party had gone on the first ascent. It looked kind of grim, but certainly doable. Joe began climbing, and immediately determined the chimney would be a real grunt, and the protection looked very bad. The ice we had seen the previous year was not there now. But there was another way. To the right, a ramp led up and to the base of a 40 foot crack splitting a vertical wall.

As Joe began this pitch the snowfall increased suddenly. Now we began to realize the full gravity of our situation. The route had taken us on a slightly rightward trend as we climbed upward. We were working our way towards the central drainage system of the face, which funneled everything down from the upper mountain. The occasional spindrift avalanches that had been hitting us thus far were, in fact, merely spillovers from this gully. The gully was only about 20 feet to the right of the aid crack Joe was now tackling. Throughout the nearly 2+ hours Joe was battling upward on the pitch, the frequency and size of the slides increased to a frightening level. Several times Joe was standing in his aiders being completely overwhelmed, whilst I was being literally compressed into the anchors below.

Once he banged in some pitons and fixed the rope for me, I quickly jumared the rope in torrents of choking powder. This was another admirable lead. I reached the pitiful belay stance and stared upward. The belay was about 5 feet from the main gully. The climbing would involve a 10 foot step of nearly vertical, rotten ice and poor snow, followed by 80-100 feet of moderate climbing interspersed with short vertical steps. And, right in the line of fire. It might have been possible to climb off to the left, but direct aid would be necessary, and it was getting late. We needed to move. About 100 feet above, the gully intersected our route from the previous year, and from here we knew it would be an easy cruise on steep snow for several pitches to the Nose, assuming the avalanches could be avoided. If only we could do this one last pitch...

"Meanwhile, upon reaching the crest of the French Ridge, the route revealed a horror show to us: gigantic, unbelievable cornice formations..."

As I prepared for the lead, however, the slides now came about every 30 seconds, and in larger volume. I could barely begin to make the first move out of the belay when yet another slide would come rocketing from above, forcing me to jump back into the belay. It was a committing series of moves right out of the belay, and I was most reluctant to seal our fate. Joe was nervously muttering something about "I don't like this, I don't like this...". The climbing itself seemed totally reasonable, but the protection was going to be poor for at least 30 feet, and the slides easily had the size and speed to take me off the slope. A fall here would be very ugly. My gut was screaming at me to retreat, but it was so incredibly hard to give in, so close to easy ground. Both of our faces were caked with snow and ice, and we were sporting the serious thousand-yard stares. Finally, after numerous attempts to climb, I looked Joe squarely in the eye and asked him, "Do you think it's stupid for me to try to lead this?" His reply was something like, "I'll follow if you do it, but I'm ready to go down right now". That was all I needed to hear, because I felt the same way. Joe and I rarely disagree, which makes us a great partnership.

Rappelling off went quickly. Reaching our bivouac, which was completely filled in with snow, we were hit by the largest avalanche yet, which lasted nearly a full minute. That's a long time to be getting pounded by snow. Any hopes we could bivy here and get another crack at it the next day were thoroughly washed away. The descent continued without incident all the way to our base camp on the Tokositna, where we arrived at last light.

The weather, of course, was climbable the next day, and the next week for that matter. But there would not be another attempt on the Harvard Route for us this season, despite the fact that we had plenty of food and supplies at base camp to do so. Our trust in the weather was utterly destroyed, and more importantly, our motivation to climb the crux of the route a third time in two years was just not there. Somehow, 2 days later we talked ourselves into making a foray onto the French Ridge. The route, renowned for its beautiful symmetry and hideous cornices, did not look so horrendous in profile from camp. We packed 6 days of food and set off to check it out. We climbed a steep couloir and gained the ridge. Near the top, we encountered some awful snow. While we were working through this, Paul flew over the Harvard Route, expecting us to be on top by now. Not knowing of our change of routes, and not seeing our tracks leading toward the French Ridge, he circled continuously, unable to see us. He would fly over several more times during the day, each time failing to spot us. Later, he told us he saw only avalanche debris and had privately assumed the worst.

Meanwhile, upon reaching the crest of the French Ridge, the route revealed a horror show to us: gigantic, unbelievable cornice formations, and steps of vertical snow climbing with belays consisting of little more than the imagination could drum up. After all the solid rock belays of the Harvard Route, this was too insecure to even contemplate. The day ended up being a nice day climb to the ridge with a lunch on the crest, and a scary downclimb of the couloir in wet, sloppy snow, to arrive at our tent, totally defeated. As we decided with finality that the trip was over and we should head for Yosemite to salvage something, we broke out the Cuervo and descended into a sorry, cynical state. We became, to quote Mark Twight, "small, pitiful, and shitty men".

One must understand, the decision to abandon the climb, so seemingly obvious down here in safe surroundings, was not so easily arrived at up there. It was in some ways the most painful choice we've had to make in the mountains, at the time. It is pointless now to think about what might have been, or to carry regrets. We're a lot happier to be alive to tell this story and especially to get another shot at Huntington next spring. And we'll take it.

Besides, it turns out that persistence does have its rewards. Paul flew in at 9 PM that night. It seemed that a 5-day high pressure system was arriving the next day. We couldn't give up NOW, he said... Thanks, Paul.

Four days later, Joe and I stood atop Mount Hunter, our tracks lacing the West Ridge. Clouds and wind were absent, leaving us only to gaze out across this vast stretch of mountains, reveling in our good fortune. Huntington stood closely below in the east, giving us pause to reflect upon the odd contrast of our experiences on each mountain, different as night and day. It's all part of the balance, I guess.

— Mark Westman, MountainZone.com Pubster