We made it safely to the summit of Black Peak and back over the weekend (October 5, 2002 -ed.), but not exactly as we had planned. Our climb day, Sunday, was gorgeously sunny in the North Cascades. As we scrambled to the low Saddle of Black's Northeast ridge, we saw for the first time the horrible narrow spine that was soon to become our nemesis and tormentor.

The route, though rated 'moderate' on the rock climber's scale, is an amazing feat of glacial erosion. Imagine a wafer thin wall thrusting up for about 2000 feet, tapering to a ridge-line averaging two to four feet wide on top, then studded with towers and spikes. It was something like climbing the back of a spiney iguana! Stephanie and Jim eyed the route suspiciously, but decided to give it a crack. Once we started out we were committed to the summit. In our assessment there was no practical way to back off.

After leading the first few pitches around some gendarmes, we had to hold up for about an hour while two faster teams passed us, (one of which had not roped up until that point because they felt that fourth class didn't warrant it, despite the increasing exposure!) Once the route took us to the top of the narrow spine, we were treated to amazing views of the North Cascades swimming crazily all around us. The wind was brisk and the exposure was extreme. We were working along a two to four foot wide route with 500 foot cliffs on either side, and one to two thousand feet of overall exposure. It was terrifying and beautifully thrilling at the same time. I remember looking back time and again after leading up and over a small fifth class tower to see my partners below, perched on top of that awful wall dusted with patches of new snow, and not believing it.

Our technique was good. We had the right gear and my leading and Jim's belaying were working smoothly. Our mistake was in failing to gauge the amount of time we'd need to make the climb. Our pitches were short due to the horizontal nature of the route and all the drag-friction this caused on the rope By the time I set up on top and belayed Jim and Stephanie to me (they simul-climbed), each pitch was eating up half an hour to 45 minutes. We were just over half way up the ridge when the sky grew orange, then red, and the sun sank away behind the crags and peaks to the West. It was beautiful and intense up there in the howling wind, but as we exchanged very worried looks we knew there was little time to appreciate the scenery... that if we didn't pull together and focus, things could very easily turn serious.

Fortunately, as Bushwhackers, we had been trained in the "go-heavy" method of climbing. We each carried our warm clothes and puffy coats despite the gorgeous weather of the day. Jim and I pulled out our headlamps, and tried as we could to spotlight the route for Stephanie, who very bravely climbed in the dark! With each pitch, we knew logically that we were getting closer to the top, but the route seemed to never end. I would struggle up one small tower as the snow began freezing to ice and the wind grew colder, only to find that more lay ahead. It quickly became a nightmare. Each of us felt the sickening stress of knowing that we were climbing for our lives. We were on that dangerous razor-line between working through adversity and a dire situation. Each time I set out on the next pitch, the mechanics of my actions separated me farther from reality. I had to often remind myself to keep going because my mind was certain that continuing to climb in those conditions defied all reason. My teammates kept amazing attitudes. Without a hint of anger or despair, they worked their way up the difficult crux pitch in the darkness, ice, and wind, before we crossed under the false summit, and crawled to a wind-sheltered landing just below the true summit tower. It was 11:30 at night - time for a team meeting.

Earlier I had brought up the idea of emergency bivouacking on or near the summit with some hesitation, but the idea grew stronger in my mind as the night dragged on. I was absolutely spent from fighting the wind and leading the climb for over 16 hours. None of us knew exactly how the down-route would be, and the thought of struggling down the wrong gully toward a cliff or possibly encountering more fourth class climbing in the darkness seemed unnecessarily dangerous given our weary mental and physical states. It was out of this concern for safety that we agreed to bivy on the wind-protected landing beside the summit tower. With every possible layer worn, and me in my thin "emergency shelter", Stephanie passed out some hand warmers. We huddled together to face the freezing night at 8800 feet. The windy air was sharp and clear, and as we made our final preparations and hunkered down Jim got our attention and pointed off to the North. There in the sky, over the ghosts and spires of mountains, swam a bright green pattern of vertical lines. The Aurora Borealis moved silently in ribbons of clean light. It was an exquisite moment of beauty, made surreal by the terrible harshness of the climb. To me it seemed like nature's voice telling us we would be okay. We were now safe.

Safe perhaps, but very uncomfortable. The temperature hung below freezing and eventually the clouds lumbered in, depositing a healthy layer of frost over everything windward. We each curled up on our backpacks trying to doze between fits of shivering. Every place the body touched hard rock, we could feel the heat sapping out and every place we leaned against one another was wonderful warm spot. Legs became cramped, backs ached, and toes and heels went numb. It was six and a half hours of rigorous torture. The air eventually brightened, and instead of being treated to those first life-giving rays of sunlight, we had to settle for the pale grey of a whiteout. Still the air temperature rose several degrees within the first half-hour of sunrise and soon we were groaning our way to our feet. Now our heads were clear. Now our bodies were warming up. We felt amazingly revived. It was obvious that given our situation and the difficulty of the night before that bivying had been the right decision.

Jim belayed me out again, and I explored around the summit tower to find not only the way to our descent route, but also a straight forward and ice-free route to the summit. By the time Stephanie and Jim made it over to me, we were all feeling good and decided to see what the top of Black Peak looked like. A quick belay up to the summit gave us a chance to touch the icy top, then we were on our way down the South ridge route. In the daylight, despite the white-out we easily navigated down the scramble route, but also realized how tough and slow it could have been in our dark and weakened state of the night before. A few hours of scree slopes and loose rocks and we were back in camp at Wing Lake. The sunlight had won the battle over the North Cascades and we took our time to thaw out our bones and pack up beside the gorgeous lake. Oddly enough, as clouds dissipated all around us, the one place that remained dark and stormy all day was the summit of Black Peak. It was like some evil cloud collector, darkly brooding over our escape from its crags while the rest of the mountains went about their happy day.

With creaky knees, bruised by our low-profile crawl up the windy ridge, we pounded our way out of the wilderness and back to Highway 20. A flurry of phone calls and a stop at the ranger station ensued to let everyone know we were alive. As it turns out plans were in the works for two independent rescue operations and a helicopter search had been scheduled for the next morning. The three of us were quite impressed to learn how fast word had spread of our tardyness, and how many people really got involved and cared so much about our well-being.

It was an amazing and terrible experience. I'm quite happy to call this climb my last big mountain of the season. I'm looking forward to some nice relaxing ski trips now. I'm usually one to bask in the challenge of adversity, and I suspect people who climb with me know I'm a little crazy in this regard. Black Peak busted me down and then some. I'm quite thankful I was able to focus in a time of crisis and lead us up the route safely.... but of course I'm more thankful that my two teammates were so strong and remained so positive. I know they pulled out skills they never knew they had on this climb, meeting and overcoming every challenge the mountain threw at us. Thanks Stephanie and Jim for holding us together, and doing what had to be done to make a bad situation into simply a bad memory and a good story to tell.