She was 40 weeks + 10 days pregnant, the size of a house, and mowing the lawn on a sunny Saturday in May to encourage the baby to hurry it the hell up already. Maybe it was the smell of freshly cut grass or the heat of being crammed inside, but the baby began to make its move. The contractions started in the late afternoon. Ever the thrifty individual, the soon-to-be-mother labored at home as long as possible to avoid extra time at hospital. At 11pm she could stand it no more and they checked in. They’d have to pay for the full extra day.
That’s how, at 5:26am on May 13, 1984, I came into this world. The first born, I chose an auspicious day to mark my uterus independence: Mother’s Day. My birthday changes days of the week yet Mother’s Day does not, so when the 13th actually falls on the second Sunday of the month, I like to celebrate it extra big. The solution for this year: climb Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Hood back to back as an homage to my mother’s own suffering to bring me into this world. Just like her, I did it without painkillers.
Mount St. Helens + Ape Caves
Jordan and I left Seattle on Saturday morning to drive the four hours south to St. Helens. Every year, hundreds of adventurers climb the mountain on Mother’s Day in honor of Moms. I was looking forward to being a part of the party!
En route, we stopped by the Ape Caves. They’re an easy drive from Portland and were quite crowded, but we still managed to find solitude and have a good time exploring. Quote of the day, “Kristina you’re unbelievable! The first sunny day of the year and you want to go crawl around underground in the dark!”.
At the lot for Mt. St. Helens, we parked and re-parked until we found the perfect spot, then settled in and waited for our friends to arrive. Arrive they DID! Clad with cakes, wigs, hammocks, and one very memorable disco dress and matching ball, we drank, danced, ate, had a conga line, and were generally merry.
Kevin Koski leads the conga line. Photo by Ben Cote.
Sunday morning – Mother’s Day – we awoke at the crack of 3:45am and were on the trail by 4:30am. Wearing trail runners, we hiked through the dirt and the snow and the mud for 30 minutes before transitioning to ski boots and skins. In another 30 minutes, we were above tree line, standing in full view of the mountain. Looking up at her, it’s hard to believe she used to be 1,300ft taller.
We started early (4:30am is at least an hour earlier than I would normally leave) because it was supposed to be hot. The forecast was accurate, and high-temps gave us easy skinning conditions until things got steep. At the standard rib where most folks scramble up the rocks, I transitioned to booting and continued to boot for the final 3,000′. The kick steps were in, the going was quick, and I had great ladies to keep me company.
Before we knew it, the summit ridge was within view, then we were at the top.
Those glissade chutes are deep, I guess.
Nice dress J! Hotdog leggings for me!
Thailand Reunion!
We cheered our accomplishment of summiting in about 5 hours, hung out for a while, then skied down with many whoops and hollers. The corn harvest was one of the best I’ve ever had on Mt. St. Helens! Seven hours after leaving the parking lot, we were back at our cars. What a way to celebrate 80 months of Turns All Year!
#SkiSquad. Once again paired with ladies who rip!
It was so hot, tank top skiing was necessary.
Mount Hood Next up – J and I drove to Mt. Hood where we met our buddy Mitch in the parking lot. We had obviously just climbed Helens, and Mitch was coming from a Nisqually Chutes run at Mt. Rainier, so everyone was on board with an 8pm bed time.
The winds howled throughout the night, shaking our trucks in the parking lot. The alarms at 3:45am came early. A quick jaunt across the pavement found us on snow by 4:33am.
Sunrise is coming.
The mountain comes into focus. The light is from a grooming machine.
You can see the remnants of the triangular summit shadow in the distance.
The wind continued to howl as we climbed the 3,000ft up the Palmer Glacier through the middle of Timberline Ski Resort. Not long after we reached the top of Palmer Lift at 9,000ft, the chair started spinning. For $60, we could have slept three more hours, ridden to the top, and been only a half-hour behind schedule. In our case, some trips are better when earned.
Temps remained lower than expected due to the constant onslaught of air in our faces. Every way we turned, the wind turned to push against us as we struggled uphill. Each of us kept our thoughts to ourselves, lest we let the others know we were ready to call it a day. Ski crampons came out about 8,000′, followed by boot crampons from 9.500′ to the summit, just over 11,000ft.
Mitch skins the last bit before we have to boot.
The diagonal ski carry. So superior to the tent carry.
Wind rushes above the rhime covered ridge.
As we passed the active volcanic cone, we were overcome by the smell of rotten eggs. Fumaroles below the Hogsback spew sulfurous gas, burning your eyes and souring your mouth. We were still blissfully in the shade, but finally emerged into the sun just as Mitch took out his fancy camera.
I wanna be a skiingmodel. Photo by Mitch Pittman.
From here, we had about a thousand feet of more difficult terrain to the summit, culminating in a crowded trip up the Pearly Gates. A beautifully aesthetic line through mounds of rhime ice, the Pearly Gates take you roughly 60-meters up through a chute.
Approaching the Pearly Gates. Photo by Mitch Pittman.
Looking down from whence we came. Photo by Mitch Pittman.
In climbing you’ll find two types of photos: ass shots and top-down head shots. This is an ass shot. Photo by Mitch Pittman.
We wore crampons and each carried and an ice axe and whippet (ski pole with a pick on the end, as seen in our photos). When we reached the chute we found a guided group coming down attached to a fixed rope. Thankfully they let us scoot past. It’s always eye-opening to see people who are new to the sport, worried about the safety and exposure, and contrast that with more experienced folks like us who scrambled up in a few minutes with skis on our backs. Before we knew it, we were on the summit. It took just over 6-hours to travel 5,250 vertical feet!
Helens is behind us. We were there yesterday! Photo by Mitch Pittman.
BIRTHDAY!!!
#TeamHoodSufferfest
We skied down via the Old Chute (for a better look at it, check out this trip report from my first visit to Hood, the fateful day I met Theresa). This descent is common for skiers and lies down a ridgeline to the west of the true summit. Getting there is spicy, navigating the start is spicy, and getting down the first few turns is spicy. I’ve been skiing for 32 years and the boys only have a collective 10-years between them, but they navigated it like champs. In short order, we were enjoying corn.
Jordan coming out of the top of the chute!
Mitch celebrating his survival of the spicy first pitches!
I heart skiing!
Jordan slaying the corn.
A quick hour later and we were back at the parking lot, gaping at the far away summit. It was hard to believe we had been standing on its point a leg-burning 60-minutes before.
We had brews, ate food, and drove home, blissfully avoiding the standard Seattle traffic and somehow arriving in the driveway four hours after we departed. Following The Shower Rule, we unpacked our gear and started laundry. Ater a year-long battle with the house’s outdated electrical system, Jordan installed our dryer, just in time for my birthday and the best gift of all. If that isn’t something to celebrate in your mid-30s, I don’t know what is.
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