Shasta

After my first expedition to Nepal, I was looking for something truly alpine feeling again. That winter, I watched the weather religiously, and after a long dry period and some of the highest temperatures forecasted in a while, I dropped everything and dashed up I-5 to Shasta for a blitz on Casaval Ridge, the wildest route on the relatively accessible south side of the mountain.

Cozy inside my sleeping back in the Bunny Flat parking lot surrounded by 10 feet of snow, my alarm jolted me awake at 2:15 AM. Just getting the courage to get out of the bag can be the crux of the day. For whatever reason, I was feeling pretty psyched off only a couple hours of sleep, and I quickly got dressed, burritoed my tent, pad and sleeping bag, slapped on the snowshoes and headed out into the darkness. Navigating mostly based on intuition, I made it to treeline and saw the moonlit mountain above me. Shasta is a monstrosity, rising approximately 7000 ft from the trailhead and towering above the surrounding forests. I was going light, fully committed to a day climb. The only luxury I’d afforded myself were my heavy but super toasty double boots that I’d used in Nepal. I still had a recollection of my frozen toes last time, and make no mistake about it, this was the heart of winter and it was below zero with a healthy wind chill.

I could now taste the summit, but ominous storm clouds formed to the northwest. I could hardly believe it as it was so early in the day, but I had to take note. I decided to continue on, but I was definitely a bit on edge with the weather. I’d already thought the weather was a possible issue, and I knew of tragedies high on Shasta in the past. I carried a GPS and had preprogrammed waypoints for the descent route in case I lost visibility entirely. As long as I could keep moving, I’d be fine.

Misery Hill turned out to be just that. Not because of the height, but because of the awful rime ice again. After the 600 foot ascent, I made the short traverse and ascent of the summit block, and quickly found myself on the summit in some of the most unique and foreboding light I’ve encountered—bright sun on blindingly white snow but with a black sky all around. I didn’t linger and quickly was plunge-stepping my way down. I went down an iced up gully through the Red Banks which required some care, then made quick work of the slopes leading to Helen Lake. Once again, I encountered brutal winds low on the mountain, reminiscent of my earlier attempt, but by the time I reached treeline, it was getting warm enough that I took my shirt off and postholed the last stretch to the trailhead. I finished only 11 hours after setting off that morning, in what I consider to be one of my strongest days ever in the mountains, without a hint of physical discomfort and in a truly beautiful setting. I was back on campus (a six hour drive!) for dinner.