(from mOthEr rOck magazine, Issue #8, Sept./Oct. 1997)
by Ed Schmahl
Fred carefully front-pointed up the near-vertical greenish icefall above us, probing for solid pick holds with his ice axe and ice hammer, raining small showers of ice chips down on me, twenty or so feet below him. Nervously, I checked the buried ice stake that protected him and me from a catastrophic slide down the 50-degree snow couloir we were slowly ascending. For a tad more protection, I buried my ice axe to the hilt and stamped a bigger foot platform with my crampons. I stared around at the surrounding cliffs and the ridiculously steep, ice-choked gully, thinking, “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I planned this hike back in April.”
Here we were on the hardest part of the Stettner Couloir, 12,000 odd precipitous feet above sea level, and a couple of thousand feet below our destination, the “Grand,” the highest of the Tetons. There was at least 1,500 to 1,600 feet more of unknown country between us and the top. Just what I had been thinking of a few weeks ago was pretty vague at the moment, but it involved a solitary stroll with a small pack up the trail below the Grand Teton from the Garnet Canyon trailhead to near timberline, then possibly a quiet little bivvy under the trees, followed by an easy day hike up onto the snow fields in the canyon below the big peak. Of course the snow was, reportedly, rather extensive this year, so maybe I’d need to rent crampons to get up above 11,000 feet, but I could sample the glaciers and, maybe, with a little luck, climb a smaller arete near the Grand and explore the lesser acolytes surrounding the Grand’s summit.
But I didn’t reckon with the power of email and the lure of the “Grand.” No sooner had I mentioned the famous name to Fred and a couple of other climber friends on the ‘Net, it was the “Exum Direct” this, and the “So-and-so Couloir” that, and the trip was out of my hands. Fred is an experienced winter climber of Rocky Mountain peaks, and his Maine brother, Tom, is an avid ascender of near-vertical ice in the winter wilderness of the White Mountains. So I was outvoted by acclamation from the start. It was to be the “Grand” itself, the grandest of the Tetons, the most alpine of America’s lower 48 peaks, rising 7000 feet from the plains to dominate the range at 13,770 feet. The snow pack this Spring was about 50% above normal, so at the time of planning back in April, we had to expect snow and ice for most of our route on our late June trip.
After some rounds of backing and filling, and bowing outs, and bowings in, we ended up with four final hiker/climbers for this ascent. It was to be Fred and Tom as co-honchos, Tom’s friend Peter, and me. I had been hoping that Fred’s son, Greg, an Army Ranger, would make it, because I knew from reports of his exploits in boot camp that he could carry me and my pack on his back to the top when the going got tough. But at the last minute, because of missed flights, he ended up not coming, and our collective strength was reduced by at least half. I was devastated. No doubt Fred and Tom would lead us through, but in case of emergencies, such as terror or exhaustion, I couldn’t count on riding up the cliffs on Greg’s back.
During the last weeks before the climb, I struggled to put together a pack that contained the essentials of Fred’s climbing checklist. I never did figure out what “BLV socks” were, but I finally filled my pack with lots of warm stuff and flew out west to meet my climber buddies at their cowboy digs in Jackson Hole. After much greeting and re-packing of ice boots, crampons, ice axes, ice screws, snow pickets, Power Bars, and the like, we hit the sack, and got mentally ready for a dawn start on the climb.
6:30 a.m., 6,800′ at Lupine Meadows Parking Lot
We got lost driving to the trail head–a bad omen–but our persistence paid off, and soon we were donning packs in the parking lot. Garnet Canyon trail rises from Lupine Meadows on the plains directly below Mount Teewinot. Near the trail head, elk, moose, and antelope graze the fields, while to the west, the steep slopes plummet down to alpine meadows, where cascading waterfalls carry snow melt to the Snake River. From the parking lot, it is seven miles of mosquito-ridden switchbacks out of the forests through the steep, flowery meadows, up the high snow-filled canyons, to the col between Middle Teton and the Grand; this was the “Lower Saddle” (11,600 feet) where we planned to camp. We hiked this trail in the cool of the morning, through four miles of mixed pine and fir, lupines and sunflowers, then turned west into Garnet Canyon and encountered our first snow. Intermittent for another half mile, the snow became continuous at around 10,000 feet. From then on, we followed old kicked steps up the snow fields covering the canyon floor. To either side, up where the snow steepened and thinned, the grey granite arms of the peaks lay exposed, their bony ridges shining bare in the warm sunlight.
Big Mistake
Quite a few fanatic snowboarders and XC-skiers had preceded us into Garnet Canyon, and were carving tracks into the snowfields above. At a place we later learned was called the “Meadows,” we stuck to the south side of Garnet Canyon, left of Middle Teton, following someone’s footsteps–someone not bound for the Grand. Big mistake! None of us was looking at the scenery with an eye for routes or landmarks. We should have checked the map or noticed the Middle Teton Glacier, or the signature dike on the east prow of Middle Teton, the prominent peak standing guard below its big brother Grand to the north. Obliviously we hiked on, mesmerized by the excellent snow, stomping into one another’s footsteps up to the saddle to the left of Middle Teton. Finally, we reached the pass, looked over to the west, checked our maps, and realized our error. After rejecting the possibility of traversing Middle Teton, we shouldered our packs, retraced our steps, and descended down 1,000 feet to round its eastern prow. The only good part of this back tracking was our passage under a fine misty waterfall that dripped a rainbow fog off the southwest buttress. We rested there, then rounded the Dike. Tom’s ankle, still recovering from a 3-month-old fracture, was hurting, so he donned crampons. I decided to follow suit, and snapped on the step-in crampons that Fred had loaned me for the climb. After falling on my face once, and using my axe for a quick arrest, my muscles finally recalled their memories of old crampon climbs, and I followed the group up onto Middle Teton glacier.
Finally, the Saddle
It was a long sludge, entirely on well-consolidated snow, up to the boulder field below the pass, the Lower Saddle camp. This brown, rocky place had only recently been cleared of snow by wind and sun, and tundra plants had yet to emerge this early in the summer. Here and there, rock enclosures built by climbers surrounded the leeward side of selected boulders. We had our choice of sites, and Fred picked a good one with a flat, sandy area shielded from the steady west wind by a pair of granite blocks. Clean, pure water poured from a pipe leading from snow melt under the boulder field. Conies and marmots piped and eyed us from the rocks. Nearby, two quonset huts reserved for rangers and guides hunkered, front doors facing the Grand. Just above us lay the pass, where on the Idaho cliff side the local john had been erected. It was a low, unroofed enclosure surrounding a deck with two chemical toilets. From these thrones, the customers had a most spectacular view of the snowy Idaho peaks below, several icy tarns, and an unobstructed western horizon. It was a john fit for a king.
The Grand dominates the view to the north from the Lower Saddle. On the left is a minor summit called Idaho mountain, and to its east, (the right), a ridge rises between two snow gullies. This is the line of the Owens-Spaulding route that we would use to descend tomorrow. Further to the right is the Exum ridge, which extends almost to the top along the left side of the Grand. Still further to the right run two other near-vertical ridges, the Petzold and the Underhill, both named after luminaries of the Grand climbing scene.
Plan A
The top of the Grand is 2,200 feet up from our camp. Our plan was to ascend the snow and ice of the Stettner Couloir between the Petzold and Underhill ridges, then work our way up the Ford couloir which branched upwards towards the summit. Months ago, back home in the lowlands, I had searched in vain for word of the Stettner Couloir in my old edition of Rossiter’s Guide to the Tetons. It just wasn’t there, but I found a one-line mention of it in some Xeroxed pages of a later Rossiter’s sent to me by Fred. Later, Fred said that a ranger and another unnamed source declared that the route was in “fine condition,” whatever that means. I had to take it on faith–first that the route was there, and then that we could do it. Both Fred and Tom were sure we could get up to the top by 10 a.m. or so, and then down by 2 p.m. at the latest.
While we sat and cooked and nibbled at our various suppers, we watched the sunlight leave the Grand. A brief hailstorm of rice-sized snow grains pelted our camp, and then it cleared. As we were pulling into our sacks, we noticed some lights flickering on the now dark Owen-Spaulding route. A couple of late-climbing climbers on the Grand appeared to be working their way homeward in the dark, foregoing the option to sit out the night on the mountain. There was no chance of that happening to us. No way. We were going to get a pre-dawn start, and be down before noon. But I packed my head lamp, just in case.
Early Start
Dawn arrived all too soon. The rosy eastern horizon didn’t actually show the sun. But if it did rise through the clouds, we couldn’t see it anyway, because it was hidden behind the flanks of the Underhill ridge on the right side of the Grand. I was the last to get my day pack filled, gaiters and wind pants on, my breakfast not quite finished. Stuffing the bag of soggy oatmeal into my jacket pocket to munch on later, I hustled after the others as they hiked off in the direction of the Owen-Spaulding trail. We ascended in the cloudy morning light to the Black Dike below the base of the south-facing ridges of the mountain. From there we traversed on mixed scree and hard snow along the base of the Exum Ridge. A few words of instruction from Fred and Tom, and I kept my crampons flat against the rock-hard snow, and was soon traversing like a natural. We continued more or less on a contour past the base of the Petzold Ridge into the Stettner Couloir just west of the Underhill Ridge.
Little sunlight reaches this couloir except right around noon, the deep trough being shielded on both sides by nearly vertical walls. The snow was hard and crunchy, the consistency of popsicles, and it sloped about 55 degrees, but it was easy work for crampons. After yesterday’s backpacking, climbing with a light day pack was a joy. Wanting some protection from a fall, but not requiring full belays, we simul-climbed on a single rope. Peter and I clipped into the middle about 30 feet apart, while Tom or Fred led, placing stakes in the snow or nuts in the cracks of the walls for protection, the last man extracting the stakes as we went. A stretch of simul-climbing stopped when the leader either ran out of pro or encountered something more fearsome than snow.
Crux after Crux
Our first major “encounter” was a 10 to 15 foot high frozen waterfall sloping 60 degrees, with water running noisily behind the ice. We discussed this little pitch, Fred remarking that the guide referred to some 60-degree ice, and he figured that it might be the crux. It was Fred’s turn to lead, and he climbed it using an anchored belay, a snow stake below, and an ice screw for pro on the falls. Above, and out of our sight, he soon set up anchors to belay the rest of us. Although it was my first steep ice, I found it easier than comparable rock, having Fred’s stiff plastic boots that I had cursed for stiffness on the trail. Swing a foot, click the front points of the crampons into the snow-crusted ice, and stand. Swing the ice axe in one hand, find a good pick placement, then swing the Stubai pick in the other hand for another placement, and pull on up to a second stance. Occasional holes in the ice made good foot or hand holds. The only unnerving part of the routine was the roaring waterfall sometimes visible at arm’s length underneath and between the icicles.
We all dispatched the first steep ice without difficulty, though the others cursed their boots for not being stiff enough. Gathering at the belay anchors, we continued simul-climbing, until the next icefall, and then the next… This was to be the order of the day–easy hard snow, then a short ice climb 10 to 15 feet high, followed by the same. Looking down the curve of the ice plunging below us, I saw that the Lower Saddle had receded remarkably. But the top of the Grand remained unseen and unknown. After several ice leads and simul-climbs, we reached the first fork. The route turned left up an unlikely steep, icy gully blocked by a bulging slab. Fred continued simul-climbing, and I dubiously followed, brooding to myself, “This is a new order of difficulty.” And it was, at least to me. The ice was thin in places, and the rock underneath bounced the ice picks back out of their intended holds. It was the infamous “mixed” climbing that Alex Lowe revels in. But no reveling for me. I brooded again, this time aloud, that the fearless leader was risking me pulling him off if I fell. So Fred placed a little pro, and climbed the waterfall to a good rock anchor. I was disconcerted to see, as I ascended the ice, that one of his pieces of protection was a sling wrapped around an icicle. “Maybe that’s the way they do it here in Wyoming,” I grumbled, “you gotta work with what you’ve got.” But still I found it a little alarming. A bit more simul-climbing on hard snow, a couple of more short, 50- to 60-degree icefalls, and then, finally for good measure, a last vertical 10-foot ice pitch. All cool, clean water ice, and lots of fun, if we could just ignore the pressure to reach the top.
The Grand Beyond
I mentioned to Fred that it was getting to be noon. We were running somewhat behind schedule. Was retreat an option? He responded that we had to get to the top in order to descend. If we tried to go down what we had just gone up this morning, we’d be lucky to get down by midnight. The question came up: “Who has head lamps?” I was the only one. “Well, make that dawn instead of midnight.” It was beyond my imagination to down-climb this insane couloir in the dark with only one light. That was just too much cold hard reality for my brain. It was “top or bust” now.
But the ice climbing seemed to be behind us. We climbed out of Stettner Couloir at last into the broad Ford Couloir. It was somewhat steep for safe unroped climbing, since there was a wonderfully steep expanse of snow and rock below, and an ice axe arrest might not be successful. So we simul-climbed with protection again. Several hundred feet up we could see a high rock crest looming against the royal blue sky. Slowly, we moved up toward it, but approaching the end of the Ford, now out of the shadows of the Underhill cliffs, the snow turned soft and squishy. Working harder, we changed direction to parallel the ridge towards the western skyline. It began to look like we were close to the summit ridge, but the difficulty of route finding is in the details, not in the distance. Hopes of an easy summit route rose when we spotted a rope anchored to a rock north of our snowfield, so we traversed over to it. Peter was all for climbing the rock, and made a valiant shot at bouldering the slab, but the route was difficult, and the prospects beyond seemed dim. We agreed that it was necessary to make a quick decision. No more putzing around anymore.
We agreed to bypass the rock ridge, and to cross some very poorly consolidated snow into another slope heading upward. With solid belays from the rock, Tom made a terrific lead on deep crumbling snow, and we found a new upward-leading snowfield with more options to argue about. Fred led a tough mixed pitch on bad snow and icy rock, and we set up anchors. Eager rock-climber Peter took the sharp end of the rope, and shortly we heard his call from above, “This is the top!” Well, it wasn’t, really, but now there was a three-quarter horizon view to west, south and east, and the summit loomed to the north.
The Beginning of the End
From that point on, it was easy “simul” snow walking along the top north-south ridge. Peter and I agreeed that since it was almost 6 p.m., we should immediately find the route down and forego the summit. But, thankfully, more experienced heads prevailed. Fred responded, “Let me look around this crag.” A minute of reconnoitering, and he shouted that we could get to the top and back in less than 20 minutes. We headed up, stood together on the summit, which is about as big as a living room, got lots of summit pictures, took a quick look around at the deep blue sky encircling us, and glanced down at the puny sister peaks below. Within moments we headed toward the down trail. Our side trip to the summit had taken less than 20 minutes. For the first time that day, a time prediction had been right.
For a short while we argued about the direction of southwest, which is the direction the Owen-Spaulding route runs from the peak. Altitude and fatigue seemed to have addled our collective brains. But compass and the map set us straight. At first it was easy snow walking, with care-inspiring steep cliffs hanging invisible below. Then there was some strolling on rock to a double rappel site. The first rappel was 70 feet of air to a broad gully, and the second rappel dropped another 70 feet from a chock stone straddling a narrow chimney. Then there was scrambling to a third rappel, down a face and through a misty waterfall. Off the snow almost for good, there was tricky route-finding across a mysterious area called the Enclosure. Luckily, Fred had paid close attention to a ranger who had described the route in great detail. We followed the instructions to the letter, and, increasingly, as we down-climbed, we found pieces of a foot trail to follow. We stayed on a ridge line between two steep snow fields (both of which we were told ended in cliffs). As the sun fell below the horizon, we worked our way down the west side of the last ridge onto a clear dirt foot path. The last glow of twilight at 10 p.m. lit our way to the Lower Saddle. I collapsed into camp after the 16 hours of climbing, thinking to myself, “I carried that head lamp over the top, and, Odin be thanked, I never even got to use it!”
Ed Schmahl is a 55-year old refugee from the Rocky Mountains, now living in in flat, mountainless Maryland. He can be reached at ed@astro.umd.edu.
