A Trip to the Kichatnas A lan K. L ong I N the decade since Al DeMaria’s pioneering visit to Alaska’s Cathedral Spires, the range has gained a reputation for towering granite peaks, claustrophobic glaciers, and abominable weather. Until 1975, the relatively small number of people who diverted their pilots from the Talkeetna-Kahiltna milk run had concentrated on mountaineering routes in the Spires, choosing the easiest lines up the peaks and even then often having epic struggles with the weather. New developments in equipment, notably in synthetic substi­ tutes for down gear, have opened the way for more ambitious ascents. Last year a significant breakthrough was made in the Kichatnas when two 8000-foot peaks were ascended by difficult big-wall routes. Amazingly enough, Mike Graber and Dave Black wanted to return to the Spires without even allowing a couple of years to dull the memories of their narrow escape from Sasquatch (South Lriple Peak). Having found the rainy southern Logans relatively tame, Andy Embick and I looked forward to sticking our necks out a little, and the Kichatnas seemed like the logical choice. We were all motivated by a desire to test ourselves in extreme alpine situations. Mike and Dave had a more specific objective in Middle Triple Peak, the second highest (and highest unclimbed) peak in the range. They’d spent a long time the previous year looking for lines on the gigantic west face above the Monolith Glacier and were more attracted by the beautiful east buttress, a classic knife-edge which jumps enticingly from the aerial photos. Our plan was to land on the Shadows Glacier, hike over the Credibility Gap (Pass A on Dave Roberts’ map, Sum m it, June, 1968) onto the Sunshine Glacier, and climb Middle Triple from the east. The first part of the plan worked fine. Suddenly surrounded by vertical rock walls broken only by steep couloirs and hanging glaciers, we shouldered heavy loads and hiked up the Shadows Glacier on the afternoon of our fly-in. Near the head of the glacier we realized that no amount of prior planning would get us up to the col that day—just looking at a potential route up the icefall seemed to trigger an avalanche down it. Turning around, we decided to kill a couple of days with a climb and settled on “The Citadel” (P 8520). The mountain had been climbed previously, but a single crack up the center of the imposing east buttress promised the type of climbing we sought. “You know, Al, you really do look like Little Orphan Annie in that hard hat.” Help! I’m balancing precariously on Quincy Quarries holds in mountain boots and my belayer is dreaming about comic strips. I get in a pin, tension left to the corner, and sink my hand into a per­ fect bong crack. One-swing nailing, incredible exposure, alternating shouts of “Lean out a little farther, Gaston” and “Hurry up, Al, you’re wasting time.” Having spent two days gaining only 350 feet, we were understandably anxious about our progress. We’d jümared quickly on the third morning and Andy and I were avoiding a huge, flaky overhang that pushed us out of our original crack system. Early in the evening Andy’s twenty-foot fall gave us an excuse to get rid of the lead, and we spent the night hanging in slings, backs screaming and fingers aching, as Dave swam up an A3 corner and Mike traversed a crumbly headwall. This is the beauty of a four-man party: your involvement with the actual climbing decreases and the often-welcome distraction of pitons and pitches disappears for hours at a time, but a feeling of security emerges and endures through even the most trying situations. Another day, back in the lead, four pitches of rotten rock behind us now, finally ledges and a bivouac. Hot food, rest for tormented back muscles, light rain in the morning, a flutter of cagoules and bivvy sacs, then sleep again. Swirling mist, a 600-foot snow-and-ice couloir, another band of rotten rock, and eventually the biting wind of the summit ridge. As Mike sings to himself in the cold, I slide out of a crack twice before aiding it, Andy jams his Jümars on a rounded bulge and has to be rescued, and Dave falls out of his étriers and lands on his head on a ledge. At last, a delicate knife-edge of snow and the summit block. Dark, cold, glimpses of other peaks, other glaciers, then the descent. Where do we go? We peer off the edge towards the Shelf Glacier. “It took us 33 pitches to get up here. That couloir can’t be as short as it looks. Must be a thousand-foot rock step in it.” Eight rappels to the glacier, two bergschrunds, and a brief snowstorm—we collapse on a ledge. Two more rappels, bare ice, then a sitting glissade—we collapse on a snow slope. I stagger off and fall chest deep into a crevasse. “Hey, I think I could use a little help here.” Trudging up the glacier, balls of snow in the Supergators, feet falling into steps that eyes can’t focus on. Finally the tent and the sleeping bags after 75 hours of climbing with only nine hours of rest. The pressure was off. We had a big climb under our belts and could afford to luxuriate in the tent. A five-day rain-and-snow storm gave us no reason to do otherwise. We slowly regained strength, devouring Andy’s well-planned food supplies and rolling with laughter at Mike’s imitations of a certain climber and pilot. When the weather cleared, we moved up to the Credibility Gap between Gurney Peak and Kichatna Spire, then humped huge loads down onto the Sunshine where we made a windy camp between two rock piles on the west fork of the glacier. The toe of the east buttress of Middle Triple towered above us. A two- day wall guarded a horizontal quarter-mile of steep ridge, and the obvious enormity of the climb precipitated a morning of heated discus­ sion. Dave, always bubbling with enthusiasm and optimism and reluc­ tant to make concessions to objective dangers, was all for setting out on the route immediately. Andy, with a budding medical career reinforcing a strong instinct for self-preservation, favored the previously-attempted north ridge. Mike and I struggled with our indecision, wanting to do the climb we had looked forward to for so long but not wanting to throw away a chance at the summit by tackling something too big. Sanity and Andy’s forceful personality eventually prevailed. The advantage of the north ridge was that we could approach up a hanging glacier and snow couloir to within about 1500 vertical feet of the sum­ mit. At the top of the couloir a broad, blank face (the “Illusory Ridge”) disappeared into the fog. The only hope of success seemed to be an incipient crack leading to steep mixed climbing below a totally smooth headwall. I caught glimpses of Dave nailing the crack, then jümared up and got lost in the mist trying to find a belay anchor. Dave disappeared down the rope nursing a badly smashed thumb, leaving me to clean a pendulum on rappel. Mike and Andy had constructed a tight bivvy hole—Dave shivered in a puddle all night and I dozed with Andy’s feet in my face. Mike and Andy did seven pitches the next day, each lead featuring ice climbing and aid. Dave and I went light, leaving our axes and crampons at the bivvy site, and were relegated to the hauling team. A brief clearing during the night revealed an enormous black cloud bank moving in from the southeast, setting the stage for a classic race against time. We jettisoned all the bivouac gear at 3:30 A.M. and set off up the corniced ridge crest toward the summit. There were no anchors for the first 300 feet, so we all just tagged along as Mike led up a steep tower and across an ice slope to the base of a rock step. Finally a pitch for the boot boys! Loose rock, hard wet free climbing, and a terrifying move past a suspended block put us on the edge of the summit snowfield. Andy, Mike, then Dave disappeared above me into the mist. We waited in frozen animation as Andy kicked toward the wispy intersection of cornice and fog, the snow an endless tilted ocean sweeping away below and above. No axe for balance, no horizon for reference, sleep closing the eyes and tipping the slope, outlines of bodies emerging in the increasing light of morning, far-away voices exchanging belay signals, and finally, louder, “I’m on top.” Motion again, muscles and senses thawing, and muted greetings on the summit. Very quiet, no wind, no visibility, and suddenly a snatch of song. “Did you hear it? A bird, up here!” A perfect expression of the loneliness of the moment, a spell cast, a memory to cherish forever. We awoke from our mystical refiec- tions as the snow started and forced us to descend. As if to punish us for our recent communion, the storm lashed us furiously, suspending our motion in an entirely different fashion. Hail slashed at our cagoules, knifing its way into every opening as we hung at the top of the smooth headwall. Andy huddled at the base of the wall, 160 feet below, catching an inch of hail every fifteen seconds on his outstretched hand.