This was one of those events that was pencilled onto the calendar again and again only to be postponed again and again for one reason or another. Good snowpack is an uncommon enough commodity in Arizona at any time of year, and by the time the second week in April came around, it had become obvious that the window for the desired Winter climb was about to slam shut for the season. In other words, it was now or never. So Jim Whitfield and I made a more or less spontaneous decision to play hooky that Thursday and head for the hills.

We spent Wednesday night in Flagstaff, and shortly after 4:30 the next morning were on the road. For most of the past week the daytime highs had been way up in the 60s in Flagstaff, and we knew the ski slopes up on the mountain were closed already, so we weren’t sure just what kind of snow conditions to expect. There would be plenty of snow in the woods, of course, but our intention was to follow the trail for about 2 miles and then turn straight up the slopes for the remaining 1500 vertical feet to the summit ridge. Would there be any snow left on those treeless slopes? It was still dark when we arrived at the ski lodge at 5:15, so we’d have to wait until we got up there to find out for sure.

After signing in at the lodge, we circled back down to the lower parking lot and parked near the trailhead. The temperature was a chilly but satisfying 20° F, with a light breeze blowing down off the slopes. We geared up and were on the trail at just past 5:30. Instead of following the usual lower trail into the woods, Jim wanted to follow the ski slope up to the upper entrance to the forest, which was steeper but more direct. The slopes were about 2/3 bare, with the remaining pack being fairly hard refrozen snow. But footing was not a problem, and while my pace was just slow enough to be really irritating to Jim, we quickly spotted the entrance in the gathering daylight.

The snow under the trees was about a foot or two deep, it appeared, and the trail, which has been trampled by a half dozen pairs of boots or snowshoes, was just firm enough to support our steps with only occasional postholing. We stopped briefly to sign the register. We were surprised to see the number of entries in the logbook over the Winter months; there were even some references to having slept on the summit in February. Our ambitions were a little less severe. We both had the summit in mind, of course, but I believe I was rather less sure of the eventual outcome than Jim, preferring to get a look at the condition of the slopes above tree line before declaring victory. In the register under comments we wrote “more air, less hill, younger body”, made some non-committal references to the summit as a possible goal, and were on our way.

It was an easy and occasionally interesting hike up the trail, the interesting parts coming mostly at the midpoints of the switchbacks where the trail crosses a steep ravine. Downslope exposure in these spots was 45° or more, which were perfectly safe but quite fun nonetheless in our crampon-less boots. Along the way it eventually grew bright enough for me to break out my video camera and start taking some candid shots of the “hike in”. We arrived at the third switchback, where the trail comes right to the edge of a small rockfall, at around 6:45. We were encouraged to see that, down here, at least, the rockfall was still about 90% covered with well-packed, refrozen snow. It was perfect crampon conditions. We sat down on some friendly-looking rocks and unpacked our climbing toys. A while later, crampons and axes on ice and some more video in the bag, we started up the 35° slope.

The technique for climbing straight up such a slope in crampons was a new one to me, but with Jim’s experience as an example, I quickly adapted his technique to the maladroit foot and was on my way. The easiest technique, unless you are a contortionist or naturally divergent-toed, is to turn one side to the desired direction of travel and walk sideways up the slope. This requires a different set of muscles than most uphill techniques, and so when the muscles on one side get tired you simply turn to face the other way and continue up the slope using the muscles on the other side of the legs. One gains elevation much more quickly going straight up a slope than on the typical trail, so care must be taken not to overwork the heart. Overwork was hardly a concern for Jim, as my glacial pace provided him a generous abundance of opportunity for rest and general lollygaggery.

This first rockfall was closed off by trees a few hundred feet above the trail switchback. Here we cut left up through the trees. Above and to the left, Jim knew from a visit years before, was another clearing in which a B-25 had crashed into the slope half a century earlier. He wasn’t sure exactly where the clearing was, so we hunted around in the trees as we ascended, sometimes postholing, sometimes on our knees and front-points in the softer untrodden snow. Eventually we both decided it felt like that way, and two minutes later we were in the clearing at just above 11,000 feet. The slope here had steepened to about 40°, but conditions continued perfect for crampons as we crunched our way up the slope.

The clearing was a good 150 yards wide and a little less in height. Heading up the left (North) side, we didn’t know exactly where the wreck was, but we could hardly have missed it; for it was scattered in large chunks over the entire half of the clearing. A wing here, an engine there, various chunks of twisted and unidentifiable metal everywhere. The aluminum airframe and skin were torn and bent, but surprisingly intact and shiny after 50 years of exposure to searing sun, monsoon rain, and Winter snow. We couldn’t help but wonder how much was hidden from our view under the snow, which in spots appeared to be 2 or 3 feet deep.

After loitering for a while to take pictures, we continued up the slope. The top of the clearing was very near tree line, and we had only to weave through a few loose stands of fir and Bristlecone pine to reach the broad upper slopes. Drifted snow and our proximity to the ridge we intended to follow made this part of the climb somewhat more exciting, with several short pitches of 50 to 60° snow to surmount before reaching the crest of the ridge. All the “up” was more than a little tiring, but the technically juvenile climbing made enjoying the wide open westward view behind us that much easier.

Up on the ridge, as expected, there were some fairly large areas of exposed rock, but from where we rested we couldn’t see how extensive they were or whether there was a continuous and reasonably direct snow path up to the summit ridge. We decided to continue around to the left, assuming our chances of finding good snow were better on the North side of the ridge. Indeed, after some careful crampon stepping across a rocky outcrop, we found what looked like continuous snowpack all the way up to the summit ridge. Off the left side of the ridge was an enormous avalanche chute, perhaps 200 yards wide and stretching all the way from the summit ridge to the trees 2000 feet below. The ridge marking the far side of the chute intersected the summit ridge at one of the latter’s minor peaks, which I initially assumed to be the 12,000 or the 12,200 foot peak. Judging distance and height becomes tricky above tree line, where there is little to assist the tired and hypoxic climber in figuring the extent of misery before him. Based on my assumption, I figured we had about 600 feet of climbing between us and the summit ridge.

We started up the ridge at our feet, but after perhaps two hundred vertical feet Jim, who was already a hundred feet higher than I, suggested we traverse across the avalanche chute and climb to the summit ridge at that minor peak. He was a little concerned about the time, and what the snow might do under the morning sun, which was already strong in our eyes as we climbed eastward up the ridge. Looking down into the avalanche chute, I was a little intimidated by the long 50° + slope down the side of the ridge, but between the reassuring crunch of my crampons and the fact that Jim was already heading into the chute and starting an aggressive climbing traverse, I hesitated for only a few seconds before plotting my own course and stepping out onto the open slope.

My first landmark was a solitary tree nearly in the middle of the chute, and about 100 feet above me. The tree, by some oddity of nature, was growing straight and contented right in the middle of what was obviously the preferred path of frequent thundering avalanches. Its determination made it that much more appropriate as a landmark. As I made my way across the slope, the downslope exposure didn’t bother me as much as I feared it might- if only because I had to focus so closely on each step and on each jab of my ax into the slope. To make things more exciting (and when does one not enjoy a little excitement?) the repetitive stepping onto the upslope sides of my crampons were wedging them sideways under my boot, and the left (downslope) crampon appeared rather annoyingly close to slipping off my boot altogether. I would rather avoid that, I thought, as even if I managed to remain stuck to the slope, the crampon in all likelihood wouldn’t come to rest until it reached the trees a half mile downslope. It didn’t take a decade of alpine experience to realize that retracing my steps back to the ridge, where glissading would bring us closer to the trailhead rather than farther, would be very exciting if not impossible with only one crampon. With that thought as encouragement, I looked up the long, steep slope still above me and continued the traverse, doing my best to kick the crampon back under the middle of my boot with each step.

It was a very long traverse. After passing just below that solitary tree, I steepened my rate of ascent. Jim was at least 200 feet above me now, and nearly out of earshot. Every minute or so he would look back down to make sure I was OK, and I’d wave the one-arm “I’m OK” sign at him as I hunched wheezing over my ice ax. My calves and quadriceps were really feeling the constant slope by now, and between that and the altitude I had settled into a routine of taking ten to twenty sideways steps up the slope and then resting for 20 or 30 seconds. It took a long time to reach each of the patches of exposed rock that served as landmarks along the way, but I remembered what I always told other people about hiking on mountains- that it’s patience and perseverance that get you there, not physical strength- and soon I saw Jim waving as if to signal that he’d reached the summit ridge. I kept up my slow but steady pace for another fifteen minutes, and finally joined Jim on the ridge. It had been a very hard climb up that slope, and with a somewhat greater degree of commitment than I was accustomed to, but one which will certainly stand out in my memory for the feeling of accomplishment once it was over.

Once on the ridge, I was very happy to realize that I had been mistaken in assuming this to be the 12,000 or 12,200 foot peak. It was in fact the 12,400 foot peak; the climb up the slope had been more like 900 vertical feet than 600, but now the summit stood barely a quarter mile away and less than 250 feet above us. Between us and the summit stretched a perfect ribbon of snow atop the gently ascending summit ridge. Easy terrain, and still perfect conditions. It looked like the peak was in the bag now, and I was ready to continue without a break.

I took my time covering this last quarter mile. Jim had decided to try to reach the summit before 10:00, which was perhaps eight minutes away, so off he went as I took video and futzed with my equipment at a leisurely pace. The wind on the ridge had picked up a bit, gusting at perhaps 20 miles per hour. The ridgeline was made a little more tricky by some drifts and rolls in the snow, but in fifteen minutes I joined Jim on the summit for a small but well deserved victory celebration. It had taken us roughly four and a half hours to reach the summit- no record, by any means, but then that included a considerable amount of time for photography and general goofing off as well.

The weather forecast for Phoenix was calling for a high of 95° that day, but at 12,633 feet and 10:30 in the morning, the temperature was in the low 20s with a 30-mile-an-hour wind. We took some pictures and some video, sent a few emails with Jim’s alpha-numeric pager, and then ate an early lunch before deciding it was time to head back down at 11. We made good speed down the summit ridge, and quickly passed by the 12,400 foot peak where we’d come up. There was no way we were going to go back the way we came; rather, we intended to stay on the ridge until past the avalanche chute, then go straight down the slopes in the direction of the trailhead. The ridge was quite interesting in spots, our snow trail squeezing down to a few inches in spots between a rocky drop on the right and a steep plunge into the Inner Basin to the left. But the snow was more or less continuous, and got us easily down to about 12,200 feet before we decided to start down the slope.

As we descended over a bulge in the slope, we discovered what we had not been able to see from below: the snowpack was nearly continuous all the way down to the trees 600 feet below, broken only occasionally by rocky outcrops. We secured our packs and gear and sat down to make fast work of the slope. Conditions were excellent for glissading- slightly rough and slightly fast, perhaps, but nothing the application of the old ice ax handbrake couldn’t control quite effectively. More bothersome was the discovery of an annoying but thankfully temporary climber’s malady: Glissader’s Wedgie.

Down, down we went, the ice spray in our faces and the beautiful view stretched across our field of view. Every few hundred feet we had to stop to sidestep exposed rocks, but it was a whole lot faster and easier than descending on foot. The only difficulties were steering, which when glissading is almost non-existent at best, and keeping the points of our crampons off the snow as we slid and bumped down the slope. As we descended into the trees we had to stop more and more frequently to avoid leaving any permanent impressions on their trunks. We eventually intersected one of the ravines which we knew intersected the trail at several points. From there it was just a matter of continuing down the ravine until we crossed an obvious trail.

The going was a little slow at times down the soft snow of the ravine, but eventually Jim suggested we stop and step around some obstacle just ahead. I wasn’t sure what it was until we had plunge-stepped around it; it turned out to be a vertical wall of rock about 20 feet high, which would have made continued glissading just a little more exciting than anything we had in mind. I happened to recognize the wall, as I had photographed it before from the trail, which I now knew was just a few yards further down. Sure enough, we hit trail just below the wall, and after a brief discussion of which direction was “down”, were back on the trodden path between the second and third switchbacks. We had descended nearly 2000 feet on our cold-numbed posteriors in less than half an hour.

In another half hour, at 12:30, we were back at the register box. After doing my best to erase all hint of doubt in our previous entry, we continued out onto the ski slope. It must have been a welcome change for Jim, who had started postholing quite badly in the softening snow. From there it was just a short trudge through the mixed ice and mud of the ski slope, and soon we were back at Jim’s car groaning like old men as we peeled off our wet, muddy gear and piled it into the trunk. It was a balmy 46° already, and the trail portion of the hike out had been a little too warm for comfort. But for the most part the conditions were just fantastic, and except for my losing one of my brand new gloves, ripping one of the cuffs of my snow bibs with my crampon, gouging the back of my brand new boots with a screw in my crampons, and tearing large blisters on both heels, everything went about as perfectly as we could have hoped. After a few days back in Phoenix we were both very glad that we’d chosen such a perfect day for our little alpine excursion, and it’s safe to predict that we’ll both be watching for similar opportunities every winter from now on.