Page A-8
Illinois Valley News, Cave Junction, Ore. Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Winding Trails: by Al Hobart
Thursday, May 25, 1967
Illinois Valley News,
Mt. Shasta Climb 1967
Around the base and far up the
slopes of lofty Mt. Shasta, in the spring
and summer, are found many species of
remarkable wild plants, some of them
rarely found in other locations. Probably
more remarkable still is another flower-
like phenomenon produced by nature
on the great mountain when it is still
buried deep in winter’s snow, one that
has never been mentioned in a wild
plant manual, or any other publication
as far as I know. It is the obnoxious
Shasta cauliflower, or Mt. climber’s
pseudo-cauliflower-ear.
The cauliflower-ear, as everybody
knows, is the exclusive traditional
earmark of the over -under prizefighter
(over-zealous and under-equipped). But
the pair I have been displaying recently,
much to the merriment of my sadistic
friends, are of the Shasta variety, and
were acquired by fighting my way with
my climbing partners to the summit of
that challenging peak through wind and
blazing sun, direct and reflected from
the mirror-like glazed snow surface.
In addition to the fearful burns
most of us got on the hours-long climb,
complete with blistered and swollen
lips noses, and ears, a delayed action
in painful condition that sneaks up on
you while you’re trying to appreciate
and photograph the rear views all
around, you’re also heroically battling
to squeeze enough oxygen out of the
rare atmosphere to hold that miserable
feeling of high-altitude nausea to a
minimum.
From an elevation of 10,000 feet
to the more than 14,000 feet altitude
of the summit only the hardiest,
best prepared climbers can escape
the discomfort of the partial oxygen
starvation encountered at such heights.
But, incredible as it may seem too
many, considering the several unfunny
aspects of the struggle to reach the top,
price paid in climbing to the summit is
negligible compared to the satisfaction
of accomplishment and the joy of
finding yourself temporarily in a world
of extraordinary beauty, one that too
few are privileged to enjoy.
Our party of six climbers, Joe,
Charles, Norm, Len, Frank, and
myself, left Grants Pass early Saturday
morning, drove to Mt. Shasta (the city)
and after reporting our intention at the
police station, a requested formality, we
drove on up to the ski lodge. From this
point for a mile up the lower slope, we
rode the ski lift to avoid the numerous
skiers flitting back and forth across the
lower slopes.
From just beyond the upper end of
the lift our steep climbing began. Our
destination for the day was Helen Lake,
now only a small, more or less level
area of deep snow in Avalanche Gulch,
at an elevation of 10,000 feet, where
we arrived to spend the night. Each
carrying a full pack around 35 pounds,
we arrived at the “lake” fairly early in
the afternoon, giving us plenty of time
to prepare for the night.
By now there were eight of us,
Bob and Ed of San Francisco, having
joined us to short distance back. Our
shelter for the night was a pair of
igloos, made from blocks cut from the
pack snow, that we had all trampled
down previously. This project,
an architectural triumph that was
engineered by Len and Norm, a pair of
accomplished igloo technicians, was
completed early in the evening. Before
8 p.m. were all said and bedded down
in our pretty little Eskimo houses. But
before we turned in we were joined by
yet another pair of climbers, Bruce and
John a couple of U of O students from
Eugene, bringing the total number of
the party to 10.
Next morning (Sun.) We were up
at 4:30, and at 5:45, equipped now with
light packs including food, drink, and
cameras, wearing long-spiked crampons
and carrying the indispensable ice-
axes, we began our final steep struggle
toward the summit, with more than
4,000 feet more of altitude to gain.
By the time we reached
Misery Ridge, at 13,000 feet, the
curious little visions that kept
prancing across my line of vision were
alternating between a hospital oxygen
tent in the valley far below, and a cozy
little bunk in an old log cabin in the
Gulch I left behind in Illinois Valley.
But these amusing little incidentals are
to be expected on such an excursion as
this and only add to the memory value
to be chewed over later.
By noon the first of us had
gained the summit, all the others
making the top soon after, an unusual
occurrence for a party of this size.
Nearly always some dropout because of
altitude sickness and fatigue.
The college boys, Bruce and
John, had energy and imagination
enough left to cook hotdogs in one of
the boiling fumaroles just below the
summit. And Frank, the sculptor whose
feet had been cold ever since we left
Iglooville, down in Avalanche Gulch,
gave them a thorough flowing out in a
fumarole, plus getting the last laugh on
that beautiful, cold old mountain.
The day was wonderfully
clear, and fairly warm even at the
higher altitudes. Before we got off the
mountain the struggle between the hot
sun and the cold snow was being lost
by the latter; the softening snow balled
up on our crampons and made the down
trip anything but ideal.
At 3:30 p.m. we were back at
the lodge, mission accomplished, that
last mile lap enjoyed in the swinging
chairs of that wonderful ski lift
– enjoyed by all of us, that is, except the
one in our party who brought his skis
along and carried them up that steep
bridge to the vicinity of our igloo camp
so that he could wind up the big event
by hurtling a mile and a half down
the mountainside. A skiniac? Most
certainly. Our notorious Len? – but of
course.
Down off the mountain we signed
out at the police station, had lunch at
Weed and were back in Grants Pass
early in the evening. At 8:30 p.m. I
was back in Packer’s Gulch, still all
in one piece, in spite of being cooked
from the shoulders up, and happy in
the knowledge that I had experienced
another wonderful adventure, with a
gang of like-minded canuricans who
are dedicated to taking advantage of
the grandest and best nature has to offer
– like the winter’s end – climbing of
Mt. Shasta.