02/15/2022
Pacific Northwest Adventures:
Ascending Mount Olympus
Mount Olympus is located in the heart of the Olympics National Park on the Northwestern Peninsula of Washington State. It is the highest point in the Olympic Mountains and is located 108 miles from its nearest higher ground. Remote, heavily glaciated, centrally located, it is referred to as the “crown jewel” of the Olympics Park Mountain Range.
Being a mountaineer who spends most of my time in the Pacific Northwest, is one of the most beautiful and picturesque mountains I've ever seen. To hike the 18 miles into its base and case upon it from the base of the blue glacier is experience of a lifetime. Climbing to the summit is an adventure I will never forget. And probably never repeat.
In fact, very few people ever summit Mount Olympus. Why is this the case? Why do so few people summit Mount Olympus even though it's half the height of Mount Rainier?
Olympus is a major draw to mountaineers all over the world, yet the average summit success rate is considered very low due to three significant factors. First, the weather can be quite precarious based on geography. The mountain is located in the rainiest region of Washington, a state already known for rainfall. The Snow Dome of Mount Olympus alone has been drilled to depths of over 80 feet. This kind of weather makes it impossible to plan for successful summit attempts. You just have to go and take your chances. If the mountain doesn't want you to climb her on summit day, you won't.
In addition to harsh weather, Olympus holds a variety of challenging features including vertical snowfields, ice glaciers, large crevasses, and a class 5.6 rock climb at the summit. Olympus is definitely a technical slope requiring experience, preparation and mountaineering skills. Not a great solo climb.
Finally, the leading reason most people never successfully summit is due to the extremely long approach to the base of the mountain. In fact, most people never even see Mount Olympus because of its remote, central location. To catch a view, you either hike into a neighboring peak or sometimes you can spot it from a distance on a clear day from the coastline. But clear days are rare given the location of the mountain. Olympus is due east of Forks, the rainiest city in Washington (you know, where the vampires live, to stay out of the sun). Most climbers spend two days hiking up to Glacier Meadows base camp just to launch a summit bid on the third day. Before you even set foot on the blue glacier, the foot of Mount Olympus, you have already traveled 18 miles from the Hoh Ranger Station trailhead.
I made the 18 mile trek to the foot of the blue glacier over a decade ago and noted it as one of the most memorable hikes of my lifetime. In 2015, our team of 8 climbers had a new ambition. Once we reached the edge of the blue glacier, we intended to strap on our crampons and place our first footprints onto the foot of the mountain, a first step in the tens of thousands of steps it would take to reach our objective of scaling the West Summit or the highest point of Mount Olympus, seven thousand nine hundred and sixty nine feet.
Most of the climbers to make it to Glacier Meadows realize they may have bitten off more than they can chew and are rarely able to summons the energy necessary to rise in the wee hours of the morning to face the extremely long, arduous climb necessary to reach the west peak, and most importantly, to return safely. Generally this climb can take 12 to 20 hours depending on weather and snow conditions, the fitness level of the team members, and maybe a little bit of old-fashioned good luck. Those who successfully summit Mount Olympus know it's a major accomplishment to be proud of.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning.
Our adventure started Monday morning in my driveway as we met our guides, experienced mountaineers who worked for Mountain Madness, founded by Scott Fisher, one of the pro guides who died on Everest during the tragic 1996 season (see Into This Air, and Everest the movie). After some basic instructions and a pack check, we waved goodbye to the family and set off on our 3 Hour drive to the trailhead not far from Forks Washington. After registering for backcountry camping permits and climbing permits, we strapped on our 5 day packs and set off from the Hoh Ranger station before noon.
For the first few hours, we passed many day hikers and families along the trail who were out to observe the majesty of the Hoh Rain Forest. However, as the sun climbed and the day progressed, we saw fewer and fewer people on the trail. Little did they know what they were missing out on as we rounded corners to confront old growth Western red Cedars as large around as small homes and Sitka Spruce and Douglas firs as tall as cathedrals. Some of these trees were 1000 years old. As we pressed deeper into the rain forest, we were exposed to a thousand shades of green. Blankets of thick Moss hung from gigantic big leave Maples like yellow-green orangutans. In fact, moss hung from and clung to everything, including hundreds of nursing logs sprouting new growth out the tops of their decomposing bodies. The forest floor was a blanket of green.
Our first days hike to Olympic Ranger station was relatively flat gaining less than 800 feet in the first 10 miles. The path gained only a few more feet the second day until we reached mile 13 from the trailhead marking the High Hoh Bridge, one of the most impressive structures in the Olympics standing a dramatic 150 feet above the river. This bridge marked the beginning of the real ascent. From this point the trail increased in elevation gain dramatically as we eventually passed Elk Lake and moved up to our first camp in Glacier Meadows. The rest of this day was highlighted by switchbacks and a descent down a rope ladder designed to aid climbers around a washout. It was obvious from the vegetation and the landscape that we passed from the montane zone to the subalpine region. As we approached Glacier Meadows Campground we got our first views of Olympus. The mountain was named by the British explorer Captain John Meares on July 4, 1776. After seeing the mountain, Meares was quoted as saying, "...for truly it must be the home of the gods."
After a delicious back country dinner, we hung all of our food from bear wires to prevent nighttime visitors. We all attempted an early bedtime on Tuesday night so we could awaken at 1 AM Wednesday morning to prepare for our climb but most of us were restless with anticipation of our first steps onto the mountain and got little sleep.
By 2 AM we were hiking in silence by the light of our headlamps, winding our way up to the terminal moraine of Mount Olympus, a steep ridge of silt and rock, looming several hundred feet above the foot of the Blue Glacier. As we topped the moraine, we could just make out in the blackness the massive body of ice known as the Blue Glacier, The foot of which butted up against the front of the rock several hundred feet below us.
We descended the scree switchbacks down to the blue ice, careful to hike one at a time as to not dislodge any rocks that might tumble down onto our companions. At the foot of the moraine we donned our climbing helmets, strapped on our crampons, and pulled our ice axes from our packs. It was time for our first step onto the massive blue glacier, a chunk of blue ice extending for miles up into the heart of the mountain.
Walking on the blue glacier was as haunting and surreal as walking on the surface of a strange ice planet. I felt like Vin Diesel's character in the opening scenes of The Chronicles of Riddick as he lunged across a lonely, frozen planet, filled with blue ice riddled with cracks and crevasses.There was little breeze in the early morning but we felt the chill of the ice below our feet.
At first, choosing a path over the icy ridges of the blue glacier was a bit daunting as cracks opened up on the left and right of every step. But with careful route selection and the safety of our equipment, every step assured us that we were hiking on solid, secure ice. Our crampons sunk into the ice with a crisp thunk, finding solid purchase with every step. Walking on the Blue Glacier with crampons was one of the most exhilarating and memorable experiences of my life. I felt like Spider-Man.
All around us we heard running water, above and below the ice. We hiked for some time on the slight incline of the blue glacier and just as the terrain began to steepen, the gaps in the ice opened up to the point where more caution was needed. We put on our climbing harnesses and roped up into two teams for safety. All the while light gradually filled the heavens. The eastern sky line revealed itself with a crack of orange and red that gradually grew brighter as we progressed. We turned off our headlamps.
Soon, we passed off the solid ice of the blue glacier and began ascending the steep eastern slope of Snow Dome. This was the steepest route I'd ever climbed as mountaineer and it required turning our feet completely sideways to the angle of the slope and kicking deep steps to prevent slippage. This is a no-fall zone as a fall would result in sliding to the bottom of the glacier into large rocks or slipping into a crevasse. Fortunately we were roped into teams of four to prevent any accidents. With a solid upward push we topped out on the snow dome (6600 feet) and after a short rest and some Yoli refreshments, we traversed a massive snowfield carefully walking around and stepping over large crevasses or cracks in the snow that fell hundreds of feet into the glacier.
From snow dome we proceeded through 7200 foot Crystal Pass heading directly towards Middle Peek, South 20° East. Then we turned right and climbed West Southwest to the top of the false summit negotiating a steep ridge that fell off on both sides.
I started feeling the heat of the day and regretted not bringing more water. Occasionally I would scoop some snow from the glacier to put on my neck and in my mouth.
Between the false summit and the actual West Peak is a saddle. We hiked down a steep scree and snow field to the saddle and then ascended with the aid of a fixed rope up to the summit rock pillar. If we thought the ascent of snow dome was steep, this short stretch of snow was the steepest I'd ever seen, about 50° straight up. We kicked deep steps with our crampons and boots straight into the mountain with our toes to gain purchase on the slope.
Finally, after hours and hours of climbing, we reached the summit Pyramid, a 150 foot rock pillar that literally required a class 5.6 rock climb to the top. We carefully removed our packs and crampons and secured them to our ice axes to prevent our gear from falling into the buttress, a deep gap separating the rock pillar from the snow and ice. We roped in teams of threes and fours and ascended together, carefully placing hand and foot holds so as to not jerk the other climbers off their perch or step on any fingers in the process.
With the final placement of a boot in a crack and a reach for that last rock outcropping, I pulled myself onto the ledge. I walk the ridge until I couldn't walk any higher. I arrived to greet seven smiling faces.
We did it. We reach the summit of Mount Olympus together. What a feeling, and what a view. From the summit we could see Mount Baker, Mount Rainier, Mount Saint Helens, and even the Pacific coast.
After some celebratory photographs, videos and a little refreshment, we repelled the wall to the base of the summit rock using a Firemen's belay. The repel was exhilarating.
Though the climb out was much faster because we were descending rather than climbing, the round-trip still took in excess of 15 hours. But the real celebration started once we reached the solid flat ice of the lower blue glacier. A cool breeze greeted us, giving much-needed relief from the baking hot sun that plagued us all day on the open snowfields. At this point, it really sunk in. We'd done it. We'd climbed Mount Olympus, and more importantly we'd descended safely.
We rewarded ourselves by filling our empty water bottles with the pure glacial waters streaming off the ice. This was the first time in decades that I'd sipped unfiltered water in the wilderness. It was delicious and refreshing. It felt like my 64 ounces of glacial water was worth its weight in gold. Our guide, Thomas, educated us on the formation of the Blue Glacier and pointed out all of its components as we trekked the last few miles across it's wide expanse.
Our last challenge was ascending the terminal moraine, that steep rock ridge we'd come down earlier that morning in headlamps. One of my least favorite mountain terrain's, this hillside full of skree and sharp rock, required us to hike one at a time to avoid dislodging large rocks from above. Even though we carefully placed out footsteps, it still felt like two steps forward, one step back, all the way up.
We had a brief visit with some park rangers at the top of the moraine and then finished the last mile to camp, arriving exhausted but happy.
The following day one of our party was feeling some altitude sickness from the exertion of the previous day so we hiked the entire two days worth (seventeen miles) in one day to get back to the car, hamburgers, and the comforts of civilization.
My Mount Olympus conquest will remain in my memory as one of the most challenging and rewarding adventures of my lifetime.
