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The Big
White Simon
Willis goes in search of Alaskan mountains just waiting to be climbed. Bigger than
France, Spain and Great Britain all added together but with fewer residents
than Glasgow itÕs easy to see why those locals call Alaska, ÒThe Big
WhiteÓ. WeÕd been in the middle
of this nothingness for several days when I decided to conduct my survey,
keen to know why six other people had paid more than two thousand pounds to
live in a frozen nylon igloo for two weeks. With any number of exotic destinations, including trekking
peaks, why go to Alaska rather than Asia or South America? ÒBecause
here I can break wind with confidenceÓ, was the considered if earthy,
response of Dean James our group leader. Dean should know, as a guide for KE he leads treks all
over the world but always returns to Alaska. The rest of our group had trekked in the Himalaya, Karakorum
or South America, but weÕd been lured here by a single common thought, the
chance to stand on part of the planet where no human has ever stood
before. ÒWhen you see how many
companies advertise Mera or Island peak you know the place is going to be
crowdedÓ, said Peter, a veteran of many such treks. He pointed past the tent door, ÒBut just look out
there. Rock, snow, sky... and
nothing else for hundreds of miles.Ó After a six
hour drive from Anchorage to the tiny mountain town of Chitina, a small
ski-plane dropped us in the Wrangell-Saint Elias National park at the head of
the Jefferies Glacier, a long corridor of ice separating two walls of
mountains, many of them unclimbed.
Provided you know where to look, there are hundreds of such mountains
in Alaska, of varying heights and difficulties just waiting for a first
ascent. We were all fairly
experienced winter walkers, some were climbers, but this is such alien
territory we needed an experienced guide like Dean. We planned to spend two weeks hiking down the glacier,
climbing as many peaks as our fitness and ability allowed, carrying all our
gear in backpacks and on sleds pulled behind us. Our first
mountain was the easiest. We
left our camp at 7,880ft and by lunchtime had claimed our first virgin summit
(9,650ft). True enough, it was
not what youÕd call a difficult climb, more a gentle snow plod, and anyone
used to crampons can quickly get the hang of walking in snow shoes. Moving together, roped in two
teams of four, we made light work of it. I couldnÕt help thinking that if all the mountains were
this easy, weÕd knock off more than half a dozen! How wrong I was. Our first
day on the glacier was also our last day of perfect weather. Alaskan mountaineering starts in
March when itÕs cold enough for the snow to be stable but after the heavy
falls have stopped, except this year, they hadnÕt. That night the temperature plummeted below -15c inside the
tent, and I snuggled deep into the Everest down bag IÕd borrowed from
Mountain Equipment. Despite
being rated at -40c, I sleep cold and it took several nights of shivering in
all my clothes before my body adjusted to the night time temperatures. More importantly it snowed all night
and day, giving no chance to establish a freeze/thaw cycle to consolidate the
ground. So we read, played cards
and tried to look on the bright side, at least there was plenty of the stuff
close to the door to melt for drinks. Two days
and two novels later, we tackled our second mountain. It was more demanding, but no harder
than an average Scottish Munro in good winter conditions, albeit with an absolutely
spectacular upswept cornice that looked like a breaking tidal wave of snow
and ice. The trickiest part of
the climb was the approach walk across the glacier. Dean was in front, probing the snow for crevasses with one
of his trekking poles which heÕd fitted with a smaller snow basket. Alaskan ÒslotsÓ make Alpine crevasses
look like amateurs. They could
swallow a whole house but the snow bridges donÕt start to collapse until
youÕre in the middle, perched over the jaws of these monsters. ThatÕs exactly what happened to
Dean. He dropped though to his
waist and although we pulled him clear, during that horrifying split second
when the snow was crumbling beneath him, heÕd seen what lay below. Or rather, what didnÕt, because the
walls of the crevasse were so far apart, weÕd all been standing on fragile
crust. For all the
objective dangers of such adventures, the greatest hazard must surely be the
risk of sharing a tent with someone who snores. On my first trek in Nepal IÕd been paired with a nocturnal
industrial cement mixer, or so it seemed. I now trek with a walkman and, where possible, my own
tent, but weight was at such a premium I couldnÕt take either to Alaska. So I was delighted to discover that
my tent partner Adrian not only slept silently, but was a tolerant companion,
a vital quality when you live, eat, sleep and (rarely) wash in a few meters
of space. Sled
hauling is a feature of Alaskan mountaineering. I'd seen pictures of
explorers pulling pulks across the trackless wastes of the Arctic, so I was a
little taken aback when Dean handed me a childÕs red plastic sledge.
This was not the stuff of heroic adventure, it was a toy! Nevertheless,
when the time came to move camp it proved an excellent way to carry heavy
loads. And believe me, the loads
were heavy. Tough tents, big
sleeping bags, mountaineering equipment, a gallon of fuel each and two weeks
of high calorie food just will not fit into a rucksack. Split the weight between a backpack
and a sledge hauled behind on ropes (attached to the sack NOT the climbing
harness - itÕs easier to ditch if you fall into a crevasse) and the whole
thing becomes far more manageable.
Led by Dean and his crevasse probe, we spent four hours crossing the
glacier under a warm sun and had set up camp in time to watch it set behind
our first two summits. When Dean
pointed out the next route, I gulped.
A wall of rock rose almost vertically from the glacier, and was split
by a series of snow filled gullies which led to a gently angled snow field
and then the summit. In the
early light, our chosen gully looked frightfully steep, but seemed more
manageable once weÕd reached its base.
Yesterdays sun had consolidated the snow, providing sure footing for
our crampons. We moved together
in two teams, Dean stomping a clear route to the upper snow field without
needing a belay. However, the
upper field was not so simple because soft, fresh snow had blown over the
ridge, making it avalanche prone.
We picked a delicate line, near the ridge and as close to stable rock
as possible. The summit provided
the best panorama yet, including a direct view of the stunning unclimbed
12,000 foot pyramid which our pilot Paul Claus, had called ÒFlightpath PeakÓ. An excellent climber himself, he
intended to be the first to its summit, and consequently refused to fly in
climbers if he suspected theyÕd attempt to steal his prize. Without
knowing it, weÕd saved the best until last, because our fourth mountain had
everything. A challenging
glacier approach, a gully climb, a rocky ridge, and a steep-ish ice
pitch. At the end of that day,
as we staggered back into camp, we all agreed it just couldnÕt get any
better, so it was time to go home.
Easier said than done. To
save weight, we had no satellite telephone. Instead, Paul had given us a tiny, line-of-sight two way
radio. It wasnÕt powerful enough
to reach the one hundred miles to his ranch, but just perfect, he explained,
for contacting jumbo jets as they flew overhead. We were supposed to ask the 747Õs navigator to contact Paul
on his home frequency and ask him to pick us up. I now know
that jumbo jets are like busses, you wait for ages then they all come at
once, with the inevitable confusion over the airwaves. A Thai Airways pilot
refused to believe anyone could be calling from the white wilderness below
and, assuming a hoax, angrily ordered us off the air before flying out of
range. Our message never did get
through, but Paul can not only read the weather, he also reads minds. First we heard a drone, not the bass
note of a intercontinental airliner, but the mosquito-like buzz of a tiny De
Haviland Beaver. With an aerial
flourish, Paul swept over a pass and pulled up next to the tents we were
hastily trying to collapse.
"We only have a short weather windowÓ, he yelled over the sound
of the propeller, Òso I want people and I want them now". Bags and bodies were thrown
aboard. We clung to each other
as the tiny craft hurtled down the glacier and into space. In fourteen days we had climbed
four previously unclimbed peaks,
but we had also spent seven days squashed inside our tents with nothing to do
except count snowflakes. It was
triumph and tedium in equal measure, but it was a true Alaskan mountaineering
experience in a tiny corner of The Big White. Simon
Willis travelled as a guest of KE Adventure Travel and British Airways Information The United States Department
of the Interior is not given to gushing prose, but let me quote from the
official guide:
ÒIncredible. You have to
see Wrangell-St.Elias National Park and Preserve to believe it-and even then
youÕre not too sure. The number
and scale of everything is enormous.
Peaks upon peaks.
Glaciers after glaciersÓ.
You get the idea. DonÕt
blunder around here unless youÕre an experienced Alaskan mountaineer or youÕll
come to grief. Hire a guide, or
go with a specialist operator. Specialist Operators KE Adventure Travel (01768
773 966) www.keadventure.com takes one party a year on its Alaskan Climber
adventure, price £2,300. Or try Cloudwalker
Expeditions (01222 810 502) Maps Trails Illustrated map 249
Wrangell-St.Elias National Park and Preserve. Available from Stanfords or over the internet. When to go Mountaineering season starts in March, but lasts into July when there
is virtually 24 hours daylight on the glaciers. In early June there is only a couple of hours of near
darkness at night, but it can be very cold, down to minus 15 to 20 degrees
centigrade. The daytime
temperatures are surprisingly comfortable, depending on whether there is
significant wind chill or not, ranging between 3 and 20 degrees
centigrade. The weather is
relatively stable at this time of year, but short lived storms are a possibility, and these can put down a
couple of feet of snow in a few hours. Equipment YouÕll need a 80L rucksack and a light-weight, warm sleeping bag (1000
grams of down - minimum). The
Mountain Equipment Everest proved ideal, as was their Annapurna down jacket
for sitting around camp.
Climbing gear and plastic double boots are, of course, a
necessity. One of the main
considerations when choosing equipment should be its weight as youÕll carry
or haul all your own stuff. KE
Adventure Travel provided excellent North Face V25 tents (one 2/3 man tent
between two) plus snow shoes and plastic sleds. |
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