Frenches Dome

Climbing at Frenches Dome. (picture from 2006)

So, why not one more quick post before my ladies return home from an extra two weeks in Michigan:

Today, despite impending clouds, intermittent raindrops, and wan motivation from an already busy weekend for both of us, my friend Erik and I headed out to Frenches Dome near Mt. Hood for three laps up a 5.8 route known as Alpha Centauri. This has always been a favorite climbing spot of mine, simply because it's unique, it's beautiful, it has an amazing top-out view of Mt. Hood, and the long, easy routes give you a real sense of climbing accomplishment.

It was crowded as all get-up today, and this was the first time I'd been to Frenches since the Access Fund and the Forest Service beefed up the belay platforms, which is a nice touch even if I still disagree with the stupid NW Forest Pass fees. (My argument? Why not cut $50 million, or even $100 million — hell, why not $1 billion — from the $739 billion federal defense budget, and use it for recreation improvements on our public lands. That's where I'd love see my tax money go . . .)

Digressions aside, it was a great day to be out, and climbing the same route at Frenches Dome three times in a row beats any day mowing the grass or milling around about town . . .

Back to Mount St. Helens

Mt Hood from the summit rim of Mount St. Helens.

A few years ago, back before real responsibility seemed to set in, I spent many a spring and summer weekend in the glorious mountains of the Pacific Northwest. Amy and I would backpack all over the place, and when we weren't out there together, I'd be out with other friends climbing various peaks up and down the spine of the Cascades: from Shasta in the south to Rainier and Mt. Stuart in the north. It was grand. 

But times changed. Our family grew, as did our other domestic responsibilities, and before I knew it, it had been three years since I'd stood atop a familiar mountain. That's not to say that we haven't gotten out. Quite the contrary. Our little one was car camping with us at three months, traveling to Canada at six months, hiking with us soon thereafter, and backpacking on Mt. Hood by the time she was just over a year old.  But my climbing gears had shifted way down. That's just how it has been for a while now.

But with some free time to myself this summer, I decided to head for the hills again and work my way up to the top of Mount St. Helens this past week. 

I was planning on doing the Swift Creek route up from the Marble Mountain snow park, as massive amounts of snow had kept the shorter, more direct route from the Climber's Bivouac closed well beyond the normal timeframe. When I got to the permit station in Cougar, Washington, however, I was pleasantly surprised to hear that the Bivouac was open and that the trail, save for the first two miles, was clear and free of snow.

So I started out from the Bivouac at 10:20 Wednesday morning, with low clouds clinging overhead and several feet of hard-packed snow cemented on the trail. Quite a few cars filled the lot, and I passed a fair amount of people along the route. 

Breaking out of the clouds on Monitor Ridge. 

At just about 5,000 feet, I walked out of the clouds and into a clear blue sky filled with views of the crater rim, Mt. Adams to the east, and Hood and Jefferson to the south. The route was essentially free of snow, so climbing up was relatively simple, just picking my way up along the boulders of Monitor Ridge. I took a break just above the main monitoring station and watched as wispy clouds raced across the sky above the crater rim up high. 

Getting ready for the final push.

The final thousand feet or so were a steady slog, and three hours and 54 minutes after I'd left my car, I reached the summit and gazed out over the beautiful expanse that spreads out from the top of St. Helens: the new dome in the crater, steaming and crumbling constantly, Spirit Lake a deep blue amidst the ashen gray surroundings, Mt. Rainier a splotchy white and black mass of mountain far to the north.

St. Helens from the top: steaming dome, Spirit Lake, and Mount Rainier. 

The view south to Jefferson was crystal clear, and the fresh mountain air cooled the lungs with each breath. It had been far too long since I'd felt such clarity.

On the crater rim. 

An hour later, I slipped on my rain pants, high-stepped down the ashen upper flanks of the mountain, and patched together a series of smooth glissades on the lingering snowfields, which cut down my descent and eased the strain on my knees. Just before I strolled back into the trees, I took one last glimpse up at the mountain, thankful for a safe trip and grateful for the chance to fill a void that has long needed some attention. What a day.

Beacon Rock

                                Photo by Peter Marbach, from the site www.gorgecommission.org                                  

Although I have walked to the top of Beacon Rock, an 850-foot monolith in the Columbia River Gorge, and though it rises prominently as you cruise past it, I must say that it's been awhile since I've really paid the massive beast much mind.

But today, I climbed a roughly six pitch, 5.7 route known as the Southeast Corner route with my friend Erik Becker and an old-school, real Beacon climber by the name of Jim Opdyke. 

My hands, in fact, still sting as I type this; it's from all the climbing today  without having seasoned them up first earlier this year. So, briefly: it was an incredible experience that gave me an entirely new appreciation and perspective of Beacon Rock, for the joy of climbing and being outside, and for good people who do good things. 

Michigan Lakes

Just home from a 10-day stint on two of the most beautiful lakes in all of Michigan: Crystal Lake and the namesake beauty itself, Lake Michigan. Having grown up in Ohio, I certainly enjoyed my summers on Lake Erie, but it wasn't until I traveled north in middle school, to Torch Lake and Lake Michigan near Traverse City, that I really realized how amazing a Midwestern lake could be. The best ones are as blue as the ocean out deep, turquoise and crystal clear as the South Pacific near the shoreline. 

This first shot is of the beach in Frankfort, Michigan, just as the sun was setting on the Fourth of July before a fantastic fireworks display that has easily become one of the best I've ever seen: no cheesy pseudo-patriotic music, no vast distance between crowd and action. The fireworks in Frankfort blast from the pier just a hundred yards from a white sandy beach packed with 5,000 people. And this year, the grand finale upped the ante and simply floored anybody who was paying any kind of attention.

The second shot is of gorgeous Crystal Lake from a coveted vista from my mother-in-law's cottage. The view easily leaves deck splinters in your jaw . . .