Like North Sister, Broken Top is a Cascades volcano with a scramble finish, though it is both a shorter hike and an easier finish. Bachelor a ski area with a trail to the summit in summer, and a ski lift in winter. It is not especially interesting, but it is a short hike close to Broken Top, suitable for taking up the rest of the day.
I camped at the Green Lakes trailhead, then took my time getting started; the cold air had pooled along Fall Creek, and there was frost on the ground. I signed the trail register, then quickly put my gloves back on for a quick hike upstream. The trail eventually emerges from the woods near some lava beds that feature some cool obsidian boulders. I left the trail at one of the camp sites just before the large Green Lake, following a clear use trail through the woods toward Broken Top.
I stayed in the peak’s shadow until partway up the sandy climb to its northwest ridge. The trail meanders to one side or the other to get around trees and steps on the ridge, with views of the Sisters behind, and some small glacier remnants on the north side. Just below the summit knob, it looks like one can go to either side. I thought left looked better, so I traversed around some steep dirt above a glacier, then scrambled some easy class 3 around to the peak’s east side, enjoying the warm sun. After one steep move, a bit more easy scramling led to the summit, with a great view of the Sisters in the late morning sun.
I made my way back down off the knob and ridge, then passed a couple of other peak-baggers on the jog back to the maintained trails. I was not in a hurry, and planned to walk most of the flats. However, I was spurred to run most of the return by a combination of boredom and passing a young woman running up the trail, making decent speed on the climb.
Back at the car, I had lunch, then drove back to the base of the Mount Bachelor ski area. The ski parking area was gated, but there was room for a half-dozen cars along the road leading to the gate. I put on more sunscreen, then took off toward the summit in the early afternoon heat. The route apparently starts up a jeep road, but there is a faint use trail short-cutting it up one of the ski slopes. Bachelor seems to be a popular workout peak, and I passed a dozen or more locals hiking up and down at different speeds. The terrain above the jeep trail is a volcanic choss nightmare, but fortunately the mountain has been at least somewhat tamed with a lightly-improved use trail. I visited the various possible high points, then returned casually to the car to drive south.
[I’m way behind on these, but will try to catch up…]
After getting spanked by rain in the Cascades, and not feeling all that motivated, I headed south with some stops for peaks along the way. I had already done South Sister during my quest for ultra-prominence peaks, but there are several other prominent volcanic peaks in the Bend area. I had been turned around before by poor conditions on North Sister, probably the most technical Cascades volcano. All of the volcanoes are made of garbage rock, so most are non-technical mounds. However, the easiest route up North Sister finishes on a steep, north-facing gully that often holds some amount of snow and ice.
I started out through the ugly, burned forest shortly after sunrise, jogging some of the downhills on my way to Soap Creek. I passed a camp there, turning uphill on a trail that climbs gradually toward Squaw Creek and Middle Sister. Where the trail crosses Squaw Creek, a fairly obvious use trail continues upstream toward the toe of the Hayden Glacier. The trail was dusty and monotonous while in the unburnt woods, and downright unpleasant in the burned areas, but lots of people seem to backpack in the area.
Following a track downloaded from Peakbagger, I left the fading use trail in a flat area, struggling up a sand-hill to North Sister’s southeast ridge. Once on the ridge, I struggled up through more brush and sand, eventually finding a faint use trail where the ridge narrows. From there, I dodged cliffs and gendarmes to one side or the other, eventually reaching the point where the southeast and southwest ridges join at the south end of North Sister’s summit ridge.
Following a clearer use trail, I contoured around the west side on a mixture of rotten rock and nasty, steep dirt, eventually reaching the base of the steep gully leading to the summit. Here I found a surprising amount of climber garbage, including not just the expected webbing anchors, but a complete 70m rope seemingly left in place for single-strand rappels. Last time I had been turned around by brittle ice on this final pitch. This time, although it had snowed some the week before, not enough remained to defeat me, though what was left was rock-hard and icy. I carefully made my way up the class 2-3 section, stepping on rocks, grabbing one side, and sometimes kicking steps.
The class 4-5 section was fairly spicy with the old snow. I started on the right, then made a delicate traverse into a corner on the left, where stemming made the climbing a bit more secure. Reaching the easier ground below the twin summits, I found yet more climber garbage in the form of two fixed lines, one to the true (left) summit, the other leading from near the right summit down to the top of the rappel rope. I went left first, tagging the summit before removing the fixed line on my way down. I left it near the top of the route, then went over to tag the other summit, and to remove the other fixed line, the rap rope, and as much of the anchor as I could.
I stuffed some of the junk in my pack, tied the rest on the outside, then awkwardly downclimbed to the base. The rap rope got caught a few times, but I eventually managed to get it down. With two fixed lines, a 70m rope, and a mess of tat, my pack bit painfully into my shoulders as I traversed back south, then hiked and carefully slid down to the upper Collier Glacier at the saddle between North and Middle Sisters. I had had enough of carrying the tat-pile, so I left it at the saddle before climbing, figuring I could pick it up on my way down.
I found a few footprints on the glacier, and various use trails making their way steeply up Middle Sister’s north side. I had the summit to myself for a few minutes, watching as a group made their way up the south ridge to join me. They didn’t seem particularly talkative, so after a bit of stilted conversation, I retraced my steps toward the saddle.
The Hayden Glacier looked much more pleasant than the neighboring, nasty volcanic moraine, so I hopped on that before point 9312′. The surface was just soft enough that I could carefully make my way down a ridge on the left-hand side, skirting the crevasses near the middle. I eventually ran into crevasses lower down, and actually had to think a bit to make my way through the crevasse maze without an ice axe or crampons. I eventually ran into some boot-prints making their way up from the left side, and soon thereafter dismounted onto slabs and moraine, finding the upper end of the use trail I had followed in the morning. I passed a variety of backpackers and day-hikers on the way back, including a couple with a dog, bizarrely being carried by the man. I didn’t ask why. I jogged the final, dusty descent to the trailhead, then rinsed off my feet and legs before continuing to Bend for supplies.
Mount Thielsen first came to my attention in 2012 when, while being a tourist at Crater Lake, I spied an impressive rock spike to the north. Unlike most of its volcanic brethren, which are mounds or symmetric cones, Thielsen has been worn down to a single pinnacle, with the only easy access from the west. An official trail leads from near Diamond Lake to within a mile of the summit. Beyond there, a good climber’s trail leads to the short class 3-4 summit scramble.
I like to break up my “commutes” between mountain ranges by tagging loner peaks in the drive-through states like Oregon and Nevada. Most of Oregon is endless green blah, but there are enough volcanoes to keep me busy for a few more trips. I was coming off two hard-ish days, and needed to do some chores in town, so Thielsen was a perfect camping spot and morning peak.
Not needing all the available daylight, I read and enjoyed a mug of hot coffee, then started up the trail a bit after 7:00. It was nice not to be trying for speed or needing to cover ground quickly, and I enjoyed the Sierra-like feel of the cool, dry morning air. The trail climbs gradually until it crosses the PCT, then becomes rougher and steeper as it joins Thielsen’s west ridge.
The route continues to become steeper as the rock improves, with the final 100 feet a fourth class scramble up the southeast face of the summit pyramid. At its base, I passed my neighbor in the parking lot the night before, an older woman who seemed to be a Thielsen regular, out for her constitutional and in no hurry. The scramble was fun and surprisingly solid, and the view down the sheer east face was impressive (there is even a 5.8 nightmare choss route on it, probably put up by refugees from the Canadian Rockies). I scrambled and jogged back to the parking lot, now filling up with day-hikers, then continued south.
It’s hard to miss Shasta when coming at the Sierra from the north, and I had an extra day, so I decided to check out the Clear Creek route, the one completely snow-free way up the mountain. It turns out to be a grind, with most of the time spent on a broad 5500′ slope above a popular camping area. However, the volcanic rubble is better-behaved than on Jefferson, and there is usually a decent trail to follow. I passed a couple people-herds heading down from camp (why?) with ice axes (why?!), but amazingly had the whole upper mountain to myself. Though the register suggested there was plenty of traffic, I saw no one on the summit or the upper Avalanche Gulch route while I hung out around mid-day. The climb was a slog, but most of the descent was a breeze, with a mixture of scree-ing and boot-skiing the soft snow-patches. I even had the trailhead to myself as I ate my mid-afternoon post-hike meal. Strange.
Mount Jefferson is the next volcano south of Adams along the Pacific rim. Though shorter than Adams, Jefferson is a much harder outing, with a lower start, longer approach, more cross-country travel, and a bit of steep snow and class 3-4 rock at the top. From Hood River, Google Maps figured out a tricksy way to get to the Pamelia Lake trailhead, linking two long, paved, single-lane forest roads to cut southwest from highway 93 to Detroit. Not having an Oregon atlas, I was a bit nervous following this winding tunnel through the forest for over an hour, but it worked as advertised, and I reached the trailhead at a reasonable hour. Not having read the instructions carefully, I discovered that Pamelia Lake Trail has an obnoxious special permit system. Normally I would just poach it, but there were signs bragging about $250 fines, and a Forest Service truck parked at the trailhead. I decided to deal with this problem in the morning, and went to sleep.
Looking at the map in the morning, I happened to notice a forest road one drainage north that went to within a mile of the PCT, and decided to check it out. After time in the North Cascades, no mere mile of Oregon bushwhacking could be that bad. My plan worked better than expected: I drove a good road to a gate, hiked 1.6 miles of road to its end, then walked a mile through mostly open forest to the PCT. On the return, I found that there is even a faint trail on the ridge south of the end of the road.
I passed a few through-hikers on my way south, as well as another $250 fine zone sign at the intersection with the normal route. I was undecided about whether to do the southwest ridge or the longer south ridge, but happened to notice the subtle cairn and use trail for the former. The route goes straight up a gully from the trail, eventually reaching a flatter area where the trail disappears beyond a cairn. From there, the best path seems to go up the left-hand side of a shallow valley. I am not sure of the best way to reach the ridge; I simply slogged up a horrid loose garbage-hill. All the volcanoes are chossy, but Jefferson seems to be in a league of its own.
Once on the ridge I made better time, following a faint path and occasionally deviating onto the snow. The ridge crest was still loose, but less awful than the sides, and it was worth staying on the crest even when that required a bit of third class scrambling over steps. Much slogging later, I reached the “red saddle” below the summit knob, where the tricky business begins.
From the south, the normal route traverses across a steep, permanent snowfield to the north side of the gray summit knob, where it is less steep and chossy. After my minimalist climb of Adams the day before, I had been feeling a bit absurd carrying my axe and crampons, but was glad I had the axe when I saw the traverse. People had installed a fresh boot-pack over the weekend, so I did not need crampons, but I cautiously planted my axe every other step. If you slip on the traverse, you won’t stop until you hit the rocks a few thousand feet below.
Once past the traverse, I continued all the way around to a gully near the north end of the summit knob, where 10 minutes of class 3-4 climbing lead to the summit. Where a couple hundred people had probably summited Adams with me the day before, fewer than a hundred had summited Jefferson since the register had been placed in 2014. After taking in the view all the way to Rainier to the north, the Sisters and Bachelor to the south, and a decent-sized glacier below the vertical east face, I sat down to snack and enjoy the perfect day.
Just as I was about to leave, I noticed a helicopter approaching the mountain, and stuck around to watch. It made a couple slow passes low over the glacier, seeming to pause at crevasse fields, then disappeared around the north side of the mountain. I started down, figuring the action was over, but the chopper returned to pass close enough to the summit that I could see the number, the red crosses on the military bird, and even the pilot and co-pilot. I waved, then continued down.
Crossing the snowfield was trickier in the downward direction, but fortunately my good hand was uphill that way. When I reached the red saddle again, I took off my pack to stow my axe and shove some snow in my bladder. The helicopter buzzed me once again, then went off to search the west face. They were clearly searching for someone, and had no idea where they should be looking. When I got home, I looked it up and confirmed that they were searching for (the remains of) Riley Zickel.
After paying on the slog up, I reaped the rewards of a quick sand descent down the east side of the ridge, then down the garbage hill to the forest, where I stopped to pour gravel and a surprising amount of loamy soil from my shoes. I lucked onto the cairn at the top of the descent gully, then carefully stepped and slid back down to the PCT. I did not pass any hikers as I jogged north, and had the woods to myself for the remainder of an eight or nine hour day.
Sacajawea is the highpoint of the Wallowas, another small but prominent range in this new-to-me corner of the country. After days of dreary drizzle, I finally manned up, put on the rain jacket I found last month, and headed out to do the peak wet. Other hikers on the trail were evidence that hiking in this sort of weather is “normal” in these parts, and the precipitation never got worse than light drizzle. However, any water combined with Pacific Northwest-level humidity starts my inevitable slide toward mildew and trench-foot.
After forays to a couple of trailside campsites, I found the unmarked trail leading to Thorp Creek, along with a well-maintained pair of logs to cross Hurricane Creek. The trail heads up the left side of some small stream before it makes an awkward crossing and becomes a well-defined series of switchbacks climbing through relatively open forest, eventually gaining a lower ridge between two higher ones.
Despite the clouds, I was warm enough in just a t-shirt, with drizzle, dew, and sweat combining to make all my clothes uniformly damp.
Eventually reaching an open valley, I recognized Sacajawea’s standard route, a north-ish ridge hooking east near its base.
Though the old Forest Service trail disappears, cairns and bits of use trail continue along the ridge, as expected for a range highpoint. I followed the ridge blindly into the clouds, at some point putting on my wool overshirt and rain jacket to form a humid cocoon.
Sacajawea and its neighbors are made of various friable rock, some red, some gray, all rotten and liable to fracture into loose scree, through which the ridge forms the least-bad path.
Fortunately there was only one possible path, and a red can containing a fairly new register, because visibility along the ridge was never more than 100 yards. I signed the register, looked around for a minute or two, then retraced my steps. Some openings between cloud layers allowed good views of the valley below, but the clouds never opened up to give me a view of the surrounding peaks and ridges.
Reaching the valley, I briefly found the trail, then lost it, and headed off cross-country on a line I thought would soon intersect it. Do not do this! As best I can tell, the trail stays well right (northeast) of the valley floor, while I strayed closer to the stream. I followed various game trails, hoping they would intersect with the main, human one, and side-hilled in the hope of crossing it. While I had hoped for a quick, fun run back to Hurricane Creek, I spent over two hours in what became a grim, steep bushwhack with highlights including getting “streamed out” in a steep, V-shaped valley. I eventually reached the base 1/4 to 1/2 mile above the log crossing, and was at least lucky enough to head downstream far enough to find it. Good practice for the Cascades, I guess.
Mount Hood, which conveniently splits the drive from Washington to the Sierra, gave me one last opportunity to don boots and real crampons. The ski area doesn’t mind car-camping in their parking lot, nor do they apparently mind tailgating, so I had a restless night. What they do mind, though, is people in boots walking on their precious groomed snow. Luckily, I had made it most of the way up the ski slope before they caught me, so I only had to deal with a short stretch of slushy, uncompacted snow. The groomers do a heroic job scraping the bits of available snow into a sort of comb-over, so that even though the mountain is more than half bare rock, it’s still possible to ski almost to the base.
Hood is supposedly one of the most-climbed peaks in the world, but I only saw one party ahead as I made my way up to the volcanic plug. The standard route follows the Palmer glacier to the east of the plug, then ascends a 40-degree chute to the ridge. The air in the crater is sulfurous, though not overwhelming, and there are several steam vents in the rock. The pair ahead of me was moving slowly up the chute; when I caught them near the top, I learned that one was having trouble with his crampons.
Reaching the top, I nearly stumbled over the other side of the ridge. The side I climbed was formed when the crater collapsed, but since then, the other side has been eaten away by a glacier, leaving a surprisingly sharp rim. The summit benchmark, if there is one, was covered by a snowdrift, but one of the surrounding markers was clear, epoxied to a rock that was, in turn, held to the mountain by a system of steel cables.
The other group reached the summit 10 minutes or so later, and we talked for awhile while they waited for the snow to soften. While the upper chute never became skiable, they were able to ski from the plug down, while I walked the whole way — not on the precious groomed snow — and beat them down by a bit.