Ever since that day, I've been eager to put the tent to use. I soon discovered the opportunity to take a Friday off of work, so I meticulously prepped a last minute snow camping trip up in the Arizona high country. Ignoring the ways of the minimalist, I took everything I could have possibly needed, including a (stretchable) 2-3 days worth of food. My pack weight without water came in at over 63 pounds, weighed the night before -- most of that weight was the tent of course. In the future, I think I may try and rig a pulk to pull behind me and throw the heavy supplies into. For this trip, however, there was definitely not enough snow to cover the many downed trees on the forest floor, which would have limited the functionality of the sled.
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| My complete route (including off-trail exploration) during the 26 hour trip. |
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| What didn't fit reasonably within the pack: gaiters, visor, trekking pole, crampons, couple nalgene bottles, ice axe, 4-season tent, slings, hockey tape... |
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| Another nalgene, compass, digital camera, topo maps, stove fuel... |
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| Tent poles, gortex gloves, avalanche probe |
On Thursday, I bailed from work at about noon and bee-lined to the high country. I made great time with only a quick stop for my last "civilized" meal. I snaked my way through busy downtown Flagstaff traffic, over to the Ranger station and put in for my backcountry permit. After an informative avalanche awareness video, I set off back through slow Flagstaff traffic and found my way to highway 180. Snowbowl road was completely clear with barely a single icy spot on the mountain curves. Finally I arrived at the ski resort parking lot at 3:30pm. With the sun fast setting on the horizon, I finished attaching the last remaining items to my pack and suited up for a quick backcountry jaunt through the snowy woods.
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| Chairlifts on Hardt Prairie, looking due west at Kendrick Peak |
There were only a few people at the trail head, mainly there to take pictures of the sunset. I received a multitude of strange looks from the tourists I passed with my tall pack towering over them, but I enjoyed every minute of it. I finally began my slog into the woods with four o'clock looming over. Hardt Prairie, the location of the bunny slopes for the Snowbowl ski resort, was almost prairie again with much of the flora springing up above the dwindling snow cover. The San Fransisco Peaks received a decent snow storm back before Thanksgiving, when my lady and I were here last, but the recent high pressure system had done everything in its power to curtail the start of the winter ski season. Nevertheless, I made careful, balanced strides over the well-worn, slick, icy trail leading into the Kachina Peaks Wilderness.
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| Hardt Prairie, looking due east at San Fransisco Peaks. There's not much snow on the western ridges from this perspective. |
Prior to the trip, I had located a clearing on a satellite map of the area and deemed that spot on the hill a great place to set up camp. I followed the Humphreys summit trail for about fifteen minutes until I reached the northern-most GPS coordinate of my set, then turned due west and began my search for the westerly coordinate. After about ten minutes of hopping over logs and sliding under crooked trees, I arrived at the clearing. There was still a ton of snow in this patch, despite the exposure to high-noon sun. Awesome sign. Best of all: it was nearly untouched, minus a set of tracks leading northward through it. I sloughed down the hill in knee-high powder and scanned for a nice flat area. The clearing appeared to be apart of one of the rock fields further up the mountain since it was littered with giant boulders. I made my way over to one of the rocks and dusted off the foot of snow on its surface. This would make the perfect area to cook on. I threw down the pack and unlatched my snow shovel and began carving out a nice, level platform to pitch the tent on.
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| My overnight, humble abode |
Prepping the tent footprint proved to be a bit of an arduous task, especially in trying to pack the powder down flat. I would have to add a lil' here, subtract some pack from there and so on. After a good fifteen minutes, my platform was perfect to pitch on and without any rocks poking up from underneath. Setting the tent was quick, with anchoring as simple as tying off the lines to horizontally-laid pickets and burying them. Before too long, the fly was up, cinched down tight and my overnight shelter complete.
While watching the sun fall through the trees with each minute, I rushed into the woods to find some downed trees to use for the fire. I dragged a relatively young but dead, fallen pine back to camp and quickly chopped it into manageable pieces. Dusk fell quick and I soon found myself scrambling to find my lanterns to illuminate my project. I tried skinning off the bark to use as kindling, but unfortunately the wood was still relatively damp. A few quick trips back into the woods to find dryer wood were to no avail. I would have to find a way to get the damp wood to somehow catch with the ever-decreasing temperature spoiling all efforts. I used my fire napalm gel, which was practically crumbling out of the squeeze tube, now hardening up from the cold. Ultimately, I got a decent fire going for two times, but after about fifteen minutes each, they both fizzled out, failing to combust the hard wood encircled in the tepee configuration. Bummer. I probably could have used some of my stove fuel, but I opted to save it just in case boiling water became more important on this trip.
My focus shifted to starting dinner. It was now about six-thirty and judging by the clear, dark skies, it felt like midnight. The lagging crescent moon was quickly trying to catch the sun, now past the horizon, and my natural light was ever-dwindling. I captured the temperature approaching the zero mark on the Centigrade scale and I mentally prepped myself for a cold, sub-freezing night. In the spirit of keeping warm, I cranked that stove! Since I opted to limit the water packed in with me, I collected a few pot-fulls of clean snow from one of the snowbanks to work into my boiling concoction. This prolonged the boiling process somewhat, but it was reassuring knowing that I should at least have a 'limitless' supply of water, should I need it -- provided I had enough stove fuel to melt it, of course.
My freeze-dried, salty lasagna was given a warm welcome by the residents of my stomach and before long I was tired. I tidied up a bit, making sure to seal in my food waste in airtight bags, which I buried under snowpack away from the tent and dug out the next day. I spoke with my lady via cell phone for the last time before my service went out completely for the remaining duration of the trip. I brewed one last batch of warmth, placed it in a Nalgene bottle and situated it in the toe box of my sleeping bag before settling into my warm bed of down. Despite the freezing floor of the tent, I was comfortable, with my bag situated atop my thermally-insulated sleeping pad. I passed out within minutes.
The sleep did not last long, however. It soon became a long night of waking up every hour or so to strange noises outside the tent. I played the never-ending game of balancing between frigid cold and sweaty warmth as I vented the sleeping bag at different settings. I'll still need to figure out a way to fine-tune the bag so I don't wake up drenched in sweat next time. Occasionally I would get up and out of the tent to brew more batches of warm water to hang from the ceiling when it got too cold. The double-wall feature of the tent performed well, with the vapor from the water bottles freezing on the underside of the outer rain fly-like shell.
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| Some of the light wind-loading and icy condensation |
I experienced quite the assortment of sleep-hampering events during the night, aside from the cold. With my down parka and insulated pants I essentially had the bitter cold beat. At about ten or eleven, I woke up to the steady and increasingly loud creaking of the forest succumbing to the intense winds pounding the mountain. The night had been eerily quiet until then, with the resonating sound of my heartbeat keeping time in my head. Now the walls of the tent were ripping and popping back and forth under the winds. The tent held well, staked in eight places, but sleeping was difficult nonetheless. I finally adjusted to the conditions and fell back asleep.
At two in the morning, my senses perked up when I heard the cackling sounds of some creature approaching the tent. I listened more intently as the creature came closer, with louder and louder "yips" and "yelps". Before long I heard the cackling from my immediate right side where I lay in the tent, and off in the distance to my left. The crunching of snow increased in strength and I braced for a climactic peak of sound when I knew the animal was directly next to my tent. It was a coyote, I reasoned. He was likely communicating with his partner off in the near-distant woods. Lucky for me, he was not the least bit interested in my camp and just continued through. The next morning, I found a single set of paw tracks following my lone set that led me into my clearing the prior afternoon. Kinda creepy, but since he respected my camp, I couldn't help but do the same regarding him.
At about three in the morning, I grew tired of waking up after short spurts of naps throughout the long night. Aside from the noises, I realized that I did not quite level out the platform enough, for which the tent was pitched on. I repeatedly awoke scrunched into my knees, halfway down the sleeping pad. Great night o' sleep, indeed. So at three o' clock I decided to get up and cook breakfast. I had never been more hungry in my life, I thought. Even though I had a 6 inch sub with my 2 serving lasagna dinner before bed, I was starving come morning. My three day supply of food was definitely not enough to last two nights given the amount of energy burned from trying to stay warm and work in the cold. I cooked up four packets of oatmeal and consumed it with an energy gel and protein bar. Boiling water took especially long since the extra boiled water from earlier in the night was frozen in the pan. To complicate matters further, after five minutes into starting up the stove for breakfast, the usual afterburner sound from the flame all of a sudden puttered out until I could only hear escaping gas. After repeatedly lighting the flame only to find it sputter and die, I decided it was time to pull it apart. Don't get me wrong, the MSR stoves are great. They work at altitude with the white fuel and at below freezing temperatures, no doubt. One of the greatest features is the ability to break each component down for field cleaning or fixing. After taking apart the fuel pump it seemed that one of the o-rings was not sealing the pressure within the bottle. I'm assuming that with unsteady fluctuations of pressure passing down the fuel line the flame couldn't stay lit. With a bit of servicing I was back in business. I boiled up a couple of extra bottles of water and tossed them in my boots to bring them back up to a tolerable temperature while I feasted on oats.
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| My kitchen setup -- Ooooo, granite counter tops, even! |
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| Any standing water is fair game for the ice monsters |
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| I should have worked this out better -- somewhat of a squeeze to get in to my living quarters |
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| Nothing says 3am quite like Quaker instant oatmeal |
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| Quick fix for chilly boots |
I passed out again for another hour or so and then began consolidating my pack for my hike that morning. I planned to leave the camp as-is, just in the off-chance that I may need to spend the extra night. I packed my bivy and down coat in with my pack just in case I would happen across some foul weather. With my gear packed I ascended the hill from whence I came to relocate the trail I had come in on the day prior.
The woods were alive that morning, swaying and creaking under the force of the intermittent winds, cycling their way towards the mountain. I followed the usual Humphreys summit trail with a nice set of old snowshoe tracks leading the way. This was the first time I was able to use my crampons up here and the conditions were perfect -- just enough icy crust on the top layer of snow to sink all twelve points into. Any steep hill was easily ascended with kicking the front four points deep into the pack. The boots performed great, with enough flex and rocker to easily move over the changing grade of trail and enough rigidity to sustain my calf muscles from too much fatigue. Before long I found myself at the bottom of Dutchman Glade, the long, snaking rock slide of giant boulders nestled between two of the ridges on the west side of the peaks. Last May, this is the route Jon and I took when we ascended directly up the west side avalanche paths to the ridgeline. However, the snow was sparse, with far too many crevices showing between each of the large boulders, stacked in chaotic fashion. Just a few more snow storms and this route would have been solid. Since I was disappointed that I would not get to use my ice axe and crampons on any steep terrain, I decided I would do a little off-trail exploration of my own.
After the second switchback up the trail, I found myself on the southwest-facing side of the bowl that overlooks some of the lower runs in the nearby ski resort. Instead of following the trail through three more switchbacks, I opted to ascend the southwest ridge directly. I have provided a map at the end of this account with my route. Most of the terrain on this ridge was covered in deep snow, and I was able to pull out the ice axe and climb using the French technique of side-stepping over each boot, obtaining decent purchase with each step. I found some amazing rock fields and boulder formations. I even wandered near what looked to be a bear den with a decent sized set of prints leading in and out of the cave. I didn't stick around long enough to take any pictures, mainly due to some concern for meeting any wildlife in that intimate space. I followed a good share of elk / deer tracks as they led the way up the mountain.
When I finally found the trail, I was just steps below the 11,400 foot marker that forbids any camping above the elevation. Talk about good timing. I had now reached the tree-line, where most species of tree native to the peaks cease to find thriving conditions for sustained life. I took a break and marveled at the expanse below me, with Agassiz peak coming into closer view and a perfect perspective down onto the ski runs.
Thirty more minutes and I made the saddle. I was greeted by the usual gale-force winds that race over the ridge between the two adjacent peaks. Despite the strong, dry, cold winds, I was able to take in extraordinary views of the distant terrain. The volcanoes to the east were all clear, with even a rare view of the Painted Desert and Little Colorado river gorge, carved out in a mimicking manner similar to its northerly neighbor, the Grand Canyon.
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| Though the snow was sparse, there was evidence of an early season cornice quickly melting and blowing away. |
There was just barely enough snow, either in waste-deep droves or rocky patches with brush showing. I leaned on my axe with each step downward, this time without crampons. I had a few falls and slides on the backside that I would end up self-arresting from in order to slow down. In about twenty minutes I found myself at the very top of the run down the center of the bowl. Though somewhat hairy at times, it was the most useful method in descending quickly and it likely saved an extra hour. It was disappointing to see so much vegetation still showing through the thin snow cover. There was snow, but it sure was sparse. For what was there, though, I wish I had a snowboard, or even skis -- hell, I'd learn to ski if it would have sped up that exit. I finally made it back to the car after an hour of treading lightly down the sides of the ski runs.
I arrived at my car at around 4:30 pm and I immediately shed the contents of my backpack with the intention of speeding up my camp breakdown process. Since I came down the ski runs, I still had to find my way back into the woods to my camp to pack everything out. I raced back into the woods with my empty pack flopping up and down with each running stride. When I went to verify the GPS coordinate of the leg that I branched off during the prior day, my GPS watch alerted me that the batteries were low. I pressed the OK button and the unit died in my hands. Great timing. I continued down the trail trying to visualize the prior day and pick out landmarks from where I had went off-trail. Long story short, I found a different way into the same clearing. My tent and supplies were still there, intact. I raced against the waning sun once again, this time with the opposite goal in mind. With my gear stowed and strapped to my pack, I cleaned my area and followed my tracks out to the car.
I made it back to the car just before 5:30, with the sun burning bright red on the horizon. Relieved and overcome with adrenaline, I made the entire 2.5 hour drive home without hesitation. It was an eventful trip crammed into the span of over 26 hours. I didn't make the summit, but I was within 500 feet on the ridge. More importantly, I gained a good set of skills and experiences to derive from in the future. With solo snow camping down, I'm ready for the next milestone in my preparations.
Cheers!
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