Pro Guiding Service - Mosquitoes, Moons, and Morons

The mosquitoes of mid-July chase us out of the parking lot. The suckers of summer are starved and want skin. And if this is what summer is about in the Northwestern woods, we want winter--fast. We burn up the two-and-a-half mile trail to timberline (which also happens to be snowline), mosquitoes feasting on the flanks. Breaking out of the woods at the 6000-foot level, we are smacked by the first unobstructed view of Mt. Adams, a pile of volcanic rubble and glacial ice that rises above the earth's crust like a mosquito welt of leviathan proportion.

By the banks of Adams Creek and near the foot of the Adams Glacier, we consider camping and making our ski assault of Washington's second highest peak the next day. Deliberations last all of a few seconds--mosquitoes have sniffed the fresh flesh and have attacked. We decide to make the 7500-vertical-foot-push from car to summit in one day. We hump our blood-rich carcasses higher and higher into winter, dreaming of bug-free sleep at 12,000 feet.

Mosquito free it is when we emerge at 10:30 p.m. from the shadows of the Northwestern Ridge onto The Pinnacle, one of several high points along the crater rim. A luminous silver disk is rising in the southeastern sky and paints our shadows across the milky snow.

By moonlight we spread out the sleeping bags and crawl in. And by moonlight we lay awake all night. The blazing disk is a spotlight obscuring the Milky Way and burning through our eyelids to thwart sleep. By the time it falls into its western bed, the sun is crawling above the eastern horizon and spilling fresh light into our eyes.

At 6:00 a.m., we are awake to watch climbers emerge over the crest of the Adams Glacier and trudge to the top. This glacier climb on the north side of the mountain is a circuitous route through a maze of crevasses and icefalls. Looking down on it during our ascent, we discussed skiing it on the return. Bridges spanning the ice cracks, however, are slumping and we conclude we are several weeks late for an unroped descent.

By 7:30 a.m., crowds are forming a half-mile away on the true summit of the peak. The mule train up the south side of the mountain has formed and, for the remainder of the day, a steady flow of bodies will arrive and depart along this conduit. Many will be carrying telemark skis and snowboards to carve the moderate slopes connecting Suksdorf Ridge with the Cold Springs Campground.

Three or four of those sliders might get adventurous and drop off the false summit into the Southwest Chutes. These chutes are also dubbed the 3-3-3 chutes because 3 distinct snow fingers drop away from the false summit and maintain a dead-steady 33-degree pitch for 3000 vertical feet before they merge with mellower slopes dropping another 1500 feet to the toe of the Avalanche Glacier.

We lounge in our sleeping bags much of the morning watching the snows of Mt. Rainier turn from pink to filament white as the sun climbs. Then we wander to the true summit and look south into Oregon where north-facing lines off the 11,000-foot summit of Mt. Hood, and the 10,000-foot cones of the Three Sisters all offer fresh adventures for summer skiers.

By noon, we judge the upper slopes of the Northwest Ridge soft enough to descend and hope the 45-degree gullies hanging over the Pinnacle Glacier are ready to welcome ski edges. Remembering how we entered these gullies last year, we drop several hundred feet down the Northwest Ridge and find a ramp leading into our gullies. I note how well the gully is catching the sun, puzzle over that for a moment, and smile. The snow should be perfect.

A few turns confirm that suspicion and, despite the steepness, I stop wipering the skis and let them carve long-radius arcs. We stop 500 feet lower to look up. "We came through this differently last year." Witt comments.

"Yeah. We traversed farther left, worked through that rock band, then traversed back to here."

Another 500 feet lower, I ask Witt. "Do you remember the icefall below us?"

"No... but there's a lot I don't remember from a year ago."

Farther down, Witt asks, "How did we get back to the Northwest Ridge last time?"

I study the landscape. "We skied below those chutes, then traversed hard to the right. Remember how we had to scramble over all the rotten rock?"

This year, with all our gear on our back, we don't need to recross the Northwest Ridge to return to a base camp. We ski fall-line corn most of the way to timberline. Turn after turn. Witt carves loose turns, keeping the tips in the fall line and generating warp speeds. I cruise the wide stretches of the vast terrain, rolling the ski edges sharply, leaning against the centrifugal force and whipping across the fall line.

Nearly a vertical mile below The Pinnacle, we start our traverse back toward the foot of the Northwest Ridge and back to the approach trail bordering Adams Creek. We traverse, and traverse, and traverse some more. Nothing looks familiar. We hit an impasse where we must climb to continue our traversing, and we're both baffled. Out come the maps and different theories surface about where we are. "Maybe we came down the White Salmon Glacier," Witt finally interjects.

"No way," I say. "That would put us way over on the southwest side of the mountain." Then I remember wondering how the noon-time sun could be striking the northwestern gullies we intended to ski. I study the map closer. The upper stretches of the White Salmon Glacier do, indeed, intersect the Northwest Ridge and the entrance to the slopes we had planned to ski split off farther down the ridge.

I feel a needle on the back of my arm and slap. I remove my hand; it's bloodied and the squashed remains of a mosquito are ground into the life-line of my palm. Witt and I share the smile of the stupid. It was a sweet mistake, but with a few extra miles to ski now, it's a mistake the morons will pay for in blood.

For information and topographic maps of Mt. Adams, contact the Gifford Pinchot National Forest or the Mt. Adams Ranger Station in Trout Lake, Washington (509)395-2501.