The Last Ice Axe

It hit me with a wallop. Stunned, I barely held back my tears. It had once been so robust and magnificent, a vast field of ice. Now only a fractured patch. An emotional despondence overtook and overwhelmed me in that moment. I had come so far to gaze upon it once more, and most of it was now gone, probably forever.

The steep climber’s trail took me to Horseshoe Lake, a liquid sapphire in a high alpine bowl. I wanted to regard the north side of Mt. Stuart, a mountain I had climbed by three different routes in my youth. The classic North Ridge had been my first, and I wished to see it again. Not easily visible from Lake Stuart, the much higher and closer lake would provide a stunning view. And later, perhaps the opportunity to hike nearer, climb onto the Stuart Glacier, and photograph the stunning granite buttress.

I imagined myself high on the ice, setting my tripod beneath the towering flank of the fabled North Ridge, and looking up the steep and slender Stuart Glacier Couloir, recalling my climbs from so long ago. I yearned to bask in the remembrance of those glorious exploits as I readied my camera to make several spherical panoramas. Sadly, it was not to be. My plight was to stand back in shock and absorb a tragic loss. Not an inexplicable loss, because I knew the reasons why, the irrefutable ravages of human-caused climate change. It shook me nonetheless. Yet, I felt a surge of denial in the face of the reality in front of me. It seems that we will not easily accept that for which we are not yet emotionally prepared.

I remained on my rocky perch regarding the glacier. It looked so sad, so forlorn, I could not approach it. Remembering the day that I had once traversed the vast glacier from Goat Pass to the North Ridge, I sighed. Ice axes in hand, we four quickly crossed the sun-cupped surface unroped, always mindful of potential rockfall from above and the gaping crevasses below. It was as if we had entered the gates of an alpine cathedral, the day bright and shiny, with the promise of a crystalline granite ascent and a magnificent summit ahead. That spectacular day was now only a memory, never to be repeated.

Just a few weeks earlier, I had hiked to the Source Lake overlook to see The Tooth, my first multi-pitch alpine rock climb. I expected to ascend to Pineapple Pass, the base of the South Face route. Visualizing a photographic composition from that site, in my mind already stunning, I continued. The narrow trail abruptly ended in a steep talus field high above the lake. The balance of the route would be up and across a daunting expanse of sharp, loose rock. Only rock. No snow. Hardly inviting, certainly time-consuming, and surely not much fun.

Where was the vast snowfield that we had ascended in 1974? My thoughts drifted to the past.

When Nicolai first invited me to climb The Tooth he added,

“Bring an ice axe.”

I responded in the affirmative, not letting him know that I had no ice axe. That would be lame, I thought, to straightaway admit that. At the first opportunity, I hurried down to the REI on Capitol Hill and perused their selection of ice axes, all freely hanging on a wall. No one helped me, and perhaps I did not want to be assisted and thus reveal myself as a lowly novice.

I picked up a nice-looking axe, which was my primary criterion, not knowing anything. It had a sleek lacquered hickory shaft with a polished steel head sporting a sharp adze and a slightly curved pick. A pointed steel spike at the other end completed the package. The pick blade was stamped ‘CAMP Made in Italy.’ Looks good, I thought. I swung it a bit. It felt good. But what did I know? And then, the decision made, I headed to the cash register. The feeling in that moment was somewhat euphoric. I had my first ice axe. It was a beauty, and I was on my way.

We headed up the Snow Lake trail from the Alpental parking lot and passed into a truly alpine environment. A brilliant sunny day spoke of possibilities. We left the hiking trail and, after passing Source Lake, encountered snow.

Nicolai pulled his ice axe from his pack, and I did the same. He began ascending the steep snow slope, kicking steps, and plunging the spike into the snow. I watched and, a bit unsure of myself quickly called out.

“Hey, how do you use this thing?”

The cat was now out of the bag. I did not know shit about travel on snow or ice.

Nicolai did not give me the business about it or laugh in my face. Like a patient mentor, he explained the rudiments of ice axe use for glacier travel, demonstrating the techniques. I picked it up quickly, relieved that my little bit of instruction had gone so well, and we continued toward the base of the granite spire known as The Tooth.

I remember that brilliant day well. The three-pitch technical climb, relatively straightforward, athletic, and satisfying, led to a descent that proved to be big fun as well. We rappelled back down the climbing route, taking it slowly, savoring both the place and the process, and were soon back on snow, the softer mushy snow of the hot afternoon. I was elated. The day had been perfect, and in a real sense, I had been spoiled. Not all alpine rock climbs would be of that quality and rarely conducted on such a fine day.

Gazing at the approach, once a vast snowfield, now only jumbled granite, I exhaled and paused. Would I climb the tortuous talus to reach Pineapple Pass today? My yearning to be there again fought with my now older self, the self that felt the photo opportunity was probably not worth the extra effort. That and an ounce of caution due to the potential for injury on a solo outing. I took some panoramas of the cirque from where I was, and once satisfied, departed. It had been a fine day even without revisiting Pineapple Pass. Perhaps sometime next season, with an enthusiastic companion, I said to myself.

Previously, Mark and I hiked up to Cascade Pass and then Sahale Arm in one of the most magnificent alpine environments in the North Cascades. Our plan, hike to the Sahale Glacier Camp, high on the shoulder of Sahale Mountain, and use that location for some dramatic mountain photography. We tent-camped at Marble Creek Campground the night before to split up the long drive from the Seattle area and get to the trailhead early. Up before dawn, we drove the rutted road to our departure point. The weather remained in transition, uncertain, but encouraging.

It reminded me of the day when Nicolai and I had embarked on the Ptarmigan Traverse so many years before. That day the ephemeral promise of fair weather rapidly evaporated at Cascade Pass, changing to pelting rain and blowing snow for our next three days of the rugged mountain traverse. We nearly froze to death.

Today would be different I thought as we hiked the first miles to the pass. The next section would be more challenging. After ascending the steep granite switchbacks, we followed the trail up the Sahale Arm’s exposed ridgeline and encountered a stiff cold wind. After the warmth of the switchbacks, the transition required layering up, and wind shells. 

Several bands of mountain goats, many with kids, passed over the trail, often nearby. One senior goat came close, regarding me, evaluating whether I was a troublemaker or not. After determining that I was no threat, the decisive leader guided the group past. We resumed hiking. I took to a prominent knoll on the arm, about three-quarters of a mile from the high camp, set up my tripod, and took several sets of photographs. The fast-moving clouds both tormented and pleased me by alternately obscuring and revealing Sahale Mountain, Mix-up Peak, The Triplets, and Johannesburg Mountain. After thirty minutes in the icy wind, my hands were freezing. Satisfied, we chose not to continue to the Sahale Glacier Camp and headed back down. The frigid wind had beaten us.

Though the Sahale Glacier appeared smaller than I had expected, I did not realize the full extent of it until I returned home. I compared my current photographs to those I took looking back from the Cache Glacier as Nicolai and I climbed toward Cache Col on our 1976 Ptarmigan Traverse. The difference was significant, staggering. And, the same was true when I examined the present state of the Cache Glacier. I knew then that my romantic desire to repeat the Ptarmigan Traverse might never be realized. And, even if I embarked on the route again, it would never be the same. The glorious ermine robes of snow that once so fully cloaked the spiky peaks would now be forever diminished.

Though I had traversed the massive South Cascades Glacier during that Ptarmigan Traverse, I had not seen it in person since. Recent photographs were my only source of information on the state of its glacial ice. In those, the retreat, the loss of glacial mass balance, was dramatic. And yet those pictures seemed somewhat abstract, only a view from a distance, captured in a photograph by someone else. While I cognitively processed the dire situation, the photographs conveyed little of the emotional impact of perceiving the loss firsthand. To return to those places I had traveled before, to see them up close, my eyes immersed in the moment, the changes made real, my emotions unleashed. It felt like witnessing the death of a loved one. 

I did not think of it at the time, but looking back, I realize this mountain season was, for me, a regrettable trilogy of loss. And, of the three, the last, the Stuart Glacier was the one that truly burst the dam of my emotions. If I am honest with myself, they all broke my heart. I felt my own personal solastalgia.

Solastalgia is a new thesis that we are destined to encounter with increasing frequency. The environmental philosopher, Glenn Albrecht developed the concept to provide clarity to the psychological impact of environmentally induced stress. It is an emotive experience we feel when we encounter the negative effects of human-caused environmental change. It can range from observing and feeling the impact of strip mining to retreating glaciers, experienced as a form of distress that is exacerbated by our perception that we are powerless before the process of irreversible environmental change.

I experience it as a profound form of loss of which I am not yet capable of wrapping my emotions around. It takes time. Years ago, I spoke about loss with a friend who was a developmental psychologist. I observed that as I aged the experience of processing loss was becoming more frequent. He replied, “It becomes constant.” I absorbed his sobering statement. It resonated with truth. And, I did not minimize it.

While my earlier observation was about the loss of people we knew and often loved, it has now become even more true in the high alpine context. It now confronts me every year. I regretfully acknowledge I will not likely revisit most of the mixed alpine climbs that remain forever enshrined in my fondest memories. Those icy places are no longer the same, much smaller, shadows of their former selves, and often worse, gone forever. That disconcerting recognition and the pain of it has stayed with me and probably always will.

I later wryly mused that ice axe sales might well be plummeting given the atrocious conditions of recent years. Perhaps there would be no point in making any more of them. Curious, I sought confirmation. It seems that I was wrong. Industry reports project ramping demand for ice axes as the number of people flocking to mountain sports steadily increases. Sales certainly cannot be driven by the accumulation of ice. It is not happening. Many of the most revered ice climbs have completely disappeared from the planet, or are in the process of doing so. Okay, many steep snow and ice climbs might still be viable in a very narrow early season window of time, after consolidation, and before they rapidly melt out. You certainly will not see the same amount of north-facing ice we used to see in years past. The Stuart Glacier Couloir, once viable in summer is now nothing but rock. The Black Ice Couloir on the Grand Teton is not always filled with the ice of yore. It has melted out and reformed, many times, depending on seasonal weather. What once we took for granted, we can no longer expect. Those days now seem irrevocably lost.

These now shorter windows for peak conditions will make the steep ascents even more tricky. I recall the three unfortunate climbers who lost their lives on Colchuck Peak’s Northeast Couloir this recent February. They had come from the East Coast, were unfamiliar with the local mountains and snowpack, and had a short climbing window based not on mountain conditions but on their travel agenda. The lead climber released the avalanche as he planted his ice axe. Though the slide was relatively small, the couloir was narrow and steep, and their falls long, and traumatic. The exposed rock and choked walls were deadly that day. I submit that they ignored the unfavorable conditions as their planned ascent was driven by a self-imposed timetable, rather than what the mountain might wisely suggest.

I did not make light of their deaths. As always, I felt grief, a grief that I had experienced before, for all those who had perished, many of whom I had known. I wished their deaths were not true and that I had not heard of them. But they held a very important lesson. If you were going to stay in the game, you could not turn away from the deaths. You really needed to pay attention to those mishaps, learn from them, and take the lessons with you as you would with any piece of acquired gear or technique. You did not want those thoughts to dominate your consciousness, and you did not want to treat them blithely either, because they mattered. A lot.

Despite that cautionary knowledge, we still yearn to ascend those icy faces and couloirs. We know it will demand even more scrutiny of conditions, seasoned judgment, considerable patience, the requisite skill to succeed, and the wisdom to know when to walk away. It all seems more difficult than ever before.

As we imagine our future alpine objectives, paging through dog-eared guidebooks and online beta searches, it is all too easy to imagine we might need another ice axe. Yeah, that Colchuck Glacier sure looks inviting. Maybe a newer, shorter, lighter axe? Perhaps no other piece of mountaineering gear better symbolizes the alpine quest, the timeless romance of the adventure ahead. Each new axe is accompanied by a compellingly glorious vision of what might be.

My old climbing partner Nicolai once derisively observed, “People often buy gear and think they’re climbing.”

Yes, our mountaineering visions and acquisitive yearnings are often difficult to subdue. Ice axes are fun mountain tools, and it is all too easy to think that you might need another. But, if you pay attention, your rational mind will tell you that your gear closet is nearly full, and ask if you really need one more ice axe, probably destined to remain pristine and new, unscathed by the hard edges of the alpine world. And, the current dismal state of alpine ice makes it even easier to say no to that acquisitive impulse. Perhaps our yearning is a form of sorrowful denial in the face of that which we can see but cannot change. I have considered that thought, held up the mirror, and concluded I already have the last ice axe I will ever own.

Author’s Note: Links to three of several contemporary spherical panoramas I took at each of the places mentioned in this story are provided below. I find the images haunting. For the most immersive experience, click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon in the panel in the upper right of the onscreen image. Then scroll to enter those places.

Mount Stuart, Horseshoe Lake Overlook, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/mount-stuart-horseshoe-lake-overlook-alpine-lakes-wilderness-wa

The Hidden Waterfall, Source Lake Cirque, Snoqualmie Region, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/the-hidden-waterfall-source-lake-cirque-snoqualmie-region-wa-usa 

Sahale Mountain, Sahale Arm, North Cascades National Park, WA: https://www.360cities.net/image/sahale-mountain-sahale-arm-north-cascades-national-park-wa