Feature

by Benjamin Tertin

Approaching 9,000 feet, we were way off the track to the summit. One mountaineer's advice --"Always carry a map"-- made better sense at that point

Back to Table of Contents | Back to Main Index
Previous Features | Send mail to The Voice

Mt. Hood Assaults
Amateur Climbers

With no significant mountain climbing experience and no climbing gear, Benjamin Tertin convinced his wife, Alison, to embark on a Mt. Hood summit attempt long after the climbing season's close. --Alison Tertin, photo

A woman once scaled Mt. Hood wearing high-heel shoes. A man with no legs reached the summit.

And more than 10,000 people climb the mountain each year, making it the second most climbed peak in the world.

To me, reports like these made Mt. Hood's 130 climbing-related deaths seem utterly irrelevant.

With your eyes floating summit-bound from Timberline Lodge, you have to assume that ascending the mountain's flowery, meadow-like slopes will require little more than a Sunday stroll -- just a simple afternoon hike.

Because my wife, Ali, and I both hail from northern Minnesota, we had about as much experience with mountaineering as most Oregonians have had with cold weather. So we researched the U.S. Forest Service climbing recommendations and the opinions of skilled mountain men.

After two hours of researching, we learned that most mountaineers, albeit well-practiced, have pessimistic tendencies to rebuke positive-thinking people.

Statements such as, "Do not climb without helmets, crampons, ice axes, ropes,..." and "Do not climb the mountain during late September -- the worst time of year because falling rock could kill you..." neither inspired nor encouraged us.

No problems, though. Striking those traditionalist warnings from my mind was even easier than the brief Internet research that had caused them, and Ali and I made plans to conquer Mt. Hood...during late September.

Arriving at Timberline before 7 a.m., we stopped at the climber's checkpoint. Expedition leaders are required to record all trip information plus a detailed inventory of tools used.

A checklist on the registration form strongly recommended more than 40 types of gear including an altimeter, compass, first aid kit, harness, GPS unit, helmet, snow shovel, ice axe and a plethora of other equipment, none of which are justifiable expenses for any student enrolled in a college course titled "Evangelical Theology and the American Experience."

Instead, I had packed four liters of water, two turkey sandwiches (with lettuce and tomato), 150 feet of thin camping rope, one lantern and fuel canister along with a great deal of photography equipment.

After climbing 2,000 vertical feet, at the top of Palmer glacier our legs were pulsing a fiery pain, so we stopped for sandwiches and our first liter of water. The climb, though strenuous, was not technical, and we were confidently gazing over the pure white tops of billowing clouds below.

"Let's go," I said to Ali. "We're nearly there, and my legs are broken in -- ready to rock."

That's when the mountaineering got "technical," as they say.

As we drew nearer to Mt. Hood's 11,240-foot peak, sand and ice whipped around us in sub-zero, 40 mph wind gusts. Wildflowers we had passed in the morning became burnt yellow sulfuric debris crumbling between the rock piles of an otherwise desolate landscape.

From its active fumaroles, Mt. Hood leaked a pungent, stinking sulfur gas that wafted into my nostrils. And each skyward step made the mountain feel larger, taking us higher above the clouds, further into a jagged environment where safety equipment didn't sound so traditionalist anymore.

Crossing a wide glacier posed the first significant risk. Without the spikes of good crampons, one slip on the sharp slope could have sent us sliding out of control into a crack in the ice.

These cracks, just four feet wide, look harmless at first, but researchers using ice radar have reported Mt. Hood glacier thicknesses at more than 350 feet. The frozen abysses were basically bottomless, and we realized that slipping into one would mean slipping out of this life.

As if traversing a gigantic, lethal game board, we strategically slid from stone to stone, each lodged into the glacier, until we once again felt the comfort of jagged basalt piles underfoot.

Approaching 9,000 feet, we were way off the track to the summit. One mountaineer's advice -- "Always carry a map" -- made better sense at that point.

But there we were, disoriented in thin air, inching west toward Illumination Rock along the base of a cliff. Under that rock wall, Ali and I listened to our greatest threat of all break loose.

Like the crack of a good billiards break, we heard a rock overhead crash down, whacking into another and then 10 more. We looked up in time to see a small asteroid field screaming toward us. Trying to block our faces with arms held high, we took off.

"Move!" I yelled back to Ali. "Go! Go! Go!"

In the corner of my eye, I saw a football-sized fragment of Mt. Hood shooting for my head. I hit the ground. Ali watched the stone fly over my back, and we both kept running, rocks whizzing behind, above and in front of us.

Frantically trudging through loose rock and sand, we scrambled up the ridge of the closest glacier.

From there, the summit seemed so close. And from there, too, the 130 lives claimed by the mountain became much more relevant. We were still alive, though, and we acknowledged our folly in mocking wisdom from experienced climbers. Harsh reality sunk in when we admitted that Mt. Hood, a layered pile of hardened lava, tephra and volcanic ash, had conquered us. Our granola bars and camera were not suitable substitutions for ice axes and helmets.

Still, nothing beats a short respite with your spouse, high above the clouds. No Minnesotan destination offers the same blend of breathtaking beauty and raw terror, and as Ali and I often do, we soaked in another small piece of creation's grandeur.

The descent proved more difficult than the climb. After we'd escaped the most threatening rock fall zone and re-entered the sulfuric wasteland, we were both dragging fatigued legs. I asked Ali, "What would we do if this baby erupts?"

(Although Mt. Hood is a dormant volcano and has not erupted since 1907, I considered the question worthwhile.)

"I guess we just burn up in the lava," she said, envisioning the five-to-six hours of downhill hiking that remained.

By the end of our 12-hour trek, we were hobbling like drunkards on tormented limbs to our car. And yet our sunburned faces were both smiling, happy to be heading home rather than wedged in a 300-foot-deep ice crack. "Do you think we should try again sometime?" I asked Ali. "Umm...I guess so," she said. "But not without equipment and not during late September."

Alison Tertin, a former seventh-grade teacher and coach from northern Minnesota, is well-practiced with ice and snow travel. She had never crossed a glacier, however, until climbing Mt. Hood. --Benjamin Tertin, photo

Without snow, Mt. Hood's popular ridges and snow bridges are gnarly piles of jagged basalt and crumbling sulfur. --Benjamin Tertin, photo

Back to Table of Contents | Back to Main Index
Previous Features | Send mail to The Voice