It was 1972 when I arrived in the U.S. from "swinging London," and encountered the brave new world of communal living, food co-ops and experimentation in every aspect of life. With my American girlfriend, I found a ride-share on a bulletin board in Madison, Wis. and crossed the prairies crowded into the back of a Ford Econoliner. Three days later we arrived in White Salmon, Washington.-at the national spelunkers convention!
There were caves in the lava, but towering above it all was the 12,360' peak called Klikitat by the native people and named Adams by the pioneers. A group of cavers decided to climb the mountain and included me in their plans. I don't remember much about that first climb in the Cascades, except that I had learned by day's end that the big peaks of the west could be climbed without vast organization or great fitness. A year later, I was back in the northwest and have never left!
Today, Hood River and the Columbia Gorge have been discovered by boardsailors, mountainbikers and other, trendy, outdoor types. 30 miles to the north, Klikitat seems untouched by these crowds, surrounded by quiet villages and approached only by a forest road that deteriorates from black-top, to gravel, to dirt and then to a primitive, rutted track. (Low clearance cars can make the trip, but only at some risk of damage.)
To begin my second year of sea to summit climbing, I had spent the early part of the summer training, watching the weather and wondering how to find a partner for some climbs in Washington. As a last resort I posted a message on the internet rec.climbing board and received replies from all around the country. Ironically, the only reply that really mattered came from a couple of miles away and introduced me to Mike Bene, a very experienced alpinist who had the whole summer off from his job as community college teacher.
He may have been a little suspicious when I explained that I would be cycling to the trailhead, but was generous enough to give me a chance. I left a day early and reached White Salmon in an hour from Portland. A few miles north of there, I came over the crest of a hill and saw the peak in the distance. This route is probably the best in the west for its continuous mountain view, culminating in the wide, prairie landscape around Trout Lake, elevation 4,000'.
From here, I quickly drove into the forest on a new,tarmac road which ended at a fork where two gravel roads branched off. I pulled the truck off the road and spent a peaceful night there. In the morning, I pulled out my roadbike in a relaxed mood, packed a few snacks and plenty of water and rolled back downhill. The miles passed easily, and I was at the Columbia River in 90 minutes. At a junction overlooking the gorge, I chose the right fork, which ran alongside the White Salmon River and straight down to the Columbia, where a launch ramp had been built for Indians to use under their treaty fishing rights. There was no other way to get a bike down to the river for several miles, and there was no one around. I rode down the ramp into the water and back up again unobserved, then turned onto the hill.
It was steady climbing on this first stretch up above the river, followed by a short descent back into the valley. Then the grade eased to a gradual ascent for the next 20 miles. The ride was so easy, I reached Trout Lake in just two hours and continued to speed up the forest road, stopping only to wield my pump at the dog who I had noticed that morning as I raced down.
The route was so idyllic, I hardly noticed the time passing before I was back at the truck. I changed to the mountain bike and took off again onto the gravel road, powering along until I hit the first set of ruts. The shock went all the way to my shoulders and put an end to my speed- demon ride. That was just as well, because the road regularly threw in sections so steep that I was hard pressed to keep the pedals turning. After an hour of this I passed a horse- camping area and the road narrowed drastically; signs warned of potholes ahead. The loose gravel was replaced by powdery dirt that had been scooped out into holes big enough to swallow the whole wheel.
Throw in bare tree roots, loose rocks, increasing fatigue and you get the picture: this was marginal riding. More like a trail than a road, this track pitched and twisted through up, down and around the mountain's flanks. There was no end in sight and no point in imagining one! At times like this, you have to remove yourself from time and space, pedal on and hope that a trail head exists somewhere in the distant future.
Then I heard a vehicle approaching and the sound of a horn-it was Mike, in his red Isuzu Trooper, in four-wheeldrive of course. I waved him on and he immediatelyunderstood that I was on my own for the duration. So there really was a trail ahead, and he would be waiting there. Riding just fast enough to maintain balance, it took 2 1/2 hours to cover the 9 miles.....and I wasn't feeling too excited about the hike to come.
Our plan was to get off the beaten track, take the round-the-mountain trail east, then follow the Mazama Glacierup the southeast side. The sun had set by the time we were packed, and Mike led off at a healthy pace to make the most of the evening light. After an exhausting hour (for me), we turned off the path and worked our way up through meadows and over ridges until we found a perfectly flat basin to camp in. Needless to say, I was first asleep and last to wake at 4AM.
Trusting that I had made some sort of recovery, I staggered onto my feet, hoisted my pack, and found that the world didn't look too bad for a 5AM start. We were into crampons and on the glacier before the sun rose, appreciating a different aspect of this frequently-overlooked mountain. We were alone, in August, on a fabulous route, sprinkled with wide-open crevasses and bordered by the site of the largest (non-volcanic) landslide in the west in living memory. The next valley over had been completely wiped out in 1996/7 and reduced to a black, slag-covered ravine.
Once again, I was lost in time on the slopes of Adams, climbing upward with no visbile clues to progress. Eventually, our glacier and our route merged into the snow cap and the standard, south-side route, where we could see tiny figures moving upward. Besides the effort of the bike ride, I was carrying my camping gear and soon pinpointed a spot where we could drop our loads, at about 10,000' and carry on unencumbered. It certainly made a difference as we picked up the pace and were soon over the rim and onto the South Summit.
Good though that was, it only led onto a view of the summit plateau, which I guess is the old crater. It's a huge
area, since it is fully ......... between the two summits. We began a horizontal trek across to the final slope, which had thawed down to the ash, rather spoiling the alpine aspect. It had been a long, long climb and I still had some fight left. In fact, I was more concerned about a couple of hikers in shorts and cotton shirts carrying bookbags. They already had terminal sunburn and were going to seriously cool off on the descent.
The easy route down Adams always feels particularly long, with interminable miles of trail before the parking lot appears through the trees. When it was all over, I knew I'd achieved a goal with the hardest sea to summit so far.