Alaska is notorious for its landscape. It is home to abundant and rugged wildlife, brilliant fjords and glaciers, and world-class waterways and mountain ranges–all things that keep even the most committed recreationists returning for a lifetime. Its magnetic pull tears at me every year as the blueish-purple lupines begin to bloom and the Grizzly Bears are awakened from their den. The knowledge of unclimbed alpine faces adds to my romanticism for this dream state. Beyond its gnarled ridgelines and frozen water Alaska is also home to the Midnight Sun. From early spring to late summer the sun never descends past the horizon.
For alpinists, these extended daylight hours are our secret weapon, providing additional warmth and time as we climb deep into the night. Early in the summer, climbers can even forgo reaching for their headlamps–although bringing one is always a good idea–and instead be guided by the surrounding sky’s pink and orange hues. Of course, this assumes you aren’t sitting in your tent waiting for the clouds to quit dumping snow (a situation my climbing partner Ben Lieber and I would come to witness firsthand).
Granted passage by the Midnight Sun, Ben and I would spend the majority of our summer and early fall exploring some of the world’s finest mountain ranges. At the season’s onset, a blazing sun consistently towered high above us. At its terminus, we spent a week under the north face of Mt. Moffit without feeling its warmth. After a long summer of failure– i.e learning –our trip to Moffit would see us open a route directly up its northeast shoulder. We named our new line Longing for Light.
Sunrise: 4:25 am
Sunset: 11:11 pm
In late spring, Ben and I set our sights on Mt. Hayes, a unique objective that has only seen a handful of ascents due to its remoteness and the fact that this area is overshadowed by the central Alaska Range. We planned to attempt a new route, but two weeks of warm weather and deeply penetrating winds stymied any chance of this. Leaving that idea behind, we made a short attempt to climb Hayes’ east ridge, the standard climbing route, but were again thwarted by high temperatures and poor snow conditions. This left us sitting inside of our tent for most of the trip. Thankfully, Ben had downloaded a handful of television episodes to his phone the morning before we left. At least we could pass time by watching mediocre crime dramas. Eventually, we were content with what we had watched and opted for other activities to pass the time. This included sharing past stories of our experiences in the mountains, some ‘exploratory’ cooking, and the occasional snowball fight. The heavy, wet snow wasn’t good for climbing, but was perfect for molding snowballs! Unfortunately, my years of playing high school baseball were far behind me and it didn’t take long for my arm to tire. Foreseeing an unpredictable forecast, we decided to end our expedition. We had pushed in our chips, but we didn’t win the hand.
Upon our return, we spent a week at the Lodge at Black Rapids. This quintessential lodge is tucked neatly off of the Richardson Highway just south of Delta Junction. Its beauty and location make its five-star rating undeniable, and it has deep and spiritual ties to both climbing and the surrounding mountains. We quickly became close friends with the owner, Annie Hopper, and she would eventually allow us to make the lodge our second home. We traded washing dishes and housework for a closet to store gear in and a bed to sleep on.
After our time at the Lodge, Ben departed on an expedition with our friend Matt Wentzell while I embarked on a two-week road trip from Valdez to Fairbanks with my partner, Bria. It took us across the state and included a handful of beautiful treks, ocean-side campsites, and probably too much seafood. This road trip was a much-needed change in environment, but as is often the case, my mind eventually drifted back to Alaska’s highest peaks. Matt and Ben returned from their trip to the Kahiltna Glacier and we all spent an evening together in Anchorage. The next morning, Bria caught an early flight home and Matt went in his own direction. With no permanent flight booked, I was keen on one more trip into the high hills. Ben and I spent another evening at our hotel to rest and decide on an objective. We ordered the best pizza in town–Moose’s Tooth–and mulled over trip reports and weather forecasts. After a few hours of back-and-forth, we committed to attempting Mt. Drum’s Hurricane Ridge. Before I knew it we were back at our storage unit packing for another adventure.
Sunrise: 3:12 am
Sunset: 12:37 am
It was now the first week of July and we had an extended, superb weather window ahead of us. We planned to climb Drum’s Hurricane (East) Ridge over two days, with a day on each end for the approach to and from the base of the mountain. Mike Meekins landed us at a dry lake deep in the tundra of Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. From here, it was a seven-mile approach to our basecamp. The trek was captivating, and for the entire approach, Mt. Drum stood proudly in the distance. We built camp next to a moving stream and prepared to move higher the next day. We spent the next morning crossing a large snowfield and climbed to a shoulder high on the east ridge. We shoveled out camp on the corniced ridge and settled in for the evening. We were at the peak of summer and the power of the sun was obvious. It held full authority over its surroundings. Ben and I enjoyed a late dinner and watched as the neon orange skyline held strong. The next day we would make our summit attempt.
Morning came and we worked in tandem to melt snow for water and cook breakfast. After a short while in camp, we left our tent and immediately began climbing on steep ground. I was out front, and after an hour of leading up steep snow, brought us to a narrow ledge. As I stepped onto the ledge both of my feet sank deep into powdered snow. Loose, wet roller balls fell away from each step and slowly crept down the flanks of the ridge. It was a poor sign. The ambient air temperature was high, and a beating sun dismantled the snow’s structure even further. It was clear to me that the conditions were once again extremely dangerous. Ben agreed. Even so, we sat on the ledge for an hour, discussing verbally (and non-verbally) whether or not we should continue. As our dialogue progressed avalanches and rockfall spewed off of the far side of the mountain. Less than 48 hours later, with a constant drizzle falling from the sky, we were picked up at the same dry lake we had landed at.
Ben and I had plans again beginning in September, but before that, I would fly back to Minnesota to spend time with family and friends. I reveled in the hot summer days and cherished the extended nighttime offered by the lower states. My days at home were relaxing, but in many ways, I was mentally preparing for my return trip. I couldn’t let go of Alaska’s big sun splayed across the sky, its rays blending with the ridgelines of mountain ranges. Near the end of the summer, I transitioned to living full-time in Colorado’s Vail Valley. I knew the valley would easily feel like home to me, but Alaska, quickly becoming my second home, was again knocking on my front door.
Sunrise: 6:33 am
Sunset: 9:06 pm
Ben greeted me at the airport with a big smile and an even bigger hug. It was now fall in Alaska and I felt the penetration of cool air the moment I stepped off the plane. The full gamut of fall colors was on display and the forests raged with an intensity I hadn’t witnessed before. This would be our first time climbing here in the fall and we were unsure about what the conditions might be like. Regardless, we planned with optimism and were eager to enjoy our time in the mountains. That same evening, we were back at the Lodge at Black Rapids, enjoying dinner with Annie and the lodge-keeper, Ray DeWilde. Ben and I decided to integrate a new approach for our fall climbing season. We charted a reconnaissance flight with Jesse Cummings of Golden Eagle Outfitters to check mountain conditions before committing to a specific area. Shortly after arriving at the lodge, Ben, Annie, Ray, and I crawled headfirst into Jesse’s Cessna 206 bush plane. That day, the mountains put on an incredible show, and Ben and I left optimistic about the overall conditions.
Thirty-six hours later, Jesse dropped us off in a glacial bed connected to the Gillam Glacier. From here, Ben and I trekked along a lateral moraine to a dry lake near the base of an unclimbed peak north of Mt. Deborah. We built our advanced camp and settled in for the evening. As we organized equipment we stared at our proposed route with great anticipation. It split the southeast face of the mountain right down the middle. Eventually, the sun did drop below the horizon and a primitive cool air sank into the valley. The sun’s warmth ever fleeting, we became more grateful each day for the time we had with it.
The next day, we would climb a new route (DeWilde Style), ending on a tapered ridgeline thousands of feet above the valley floor. We shared a moment of contentment at its top and enjoyed an undulating view of jagged summits and carved out valleys. As light snow started to fall, we quickly made plans to descend. A few hours later, we were back at our trekking poles. We had simul-climbed the entirety of the face and rappelled the route all in a day’s effort. Ben and I rode our high all the way down to the landing strip.
Sunrise: 8:45 am
Sunset: 6:25 pm
During our reconnaissance mission, Ben and I had seen another line we felt prompted a closer look. Our good friend Austin Schmitz met us in Anchorage and joined us for this next expedition. As a team, we rested at the lodge and waited for the next weather window to arrive. After ten days of restlessness, we found ourselves back in the Hayes Range. We had lost over an hour of daylight in the time between these two trips.
Again, we hired Jesse to fly us into the belly of the beast. We flew in one-by-one, landing in an expansive valley far away from the north side of the cirque. The approach included both glacial travel and a tedious trek over a medial moraine that split the central and eastern spears of the Trident Glacier. The setting was outstanding, and our team felt fortunate for the opportunity to simply be there. Similar to previous trips, our team would make quick work, taking only a single rest day before attacking the route. This time, our efforts to climb a new route would need an extra gear. During our first attempt, we moved slowly, and a couple of route-finding mistakes would keep us from reaching the top. During our descent, the darkness sifted in like sand in an hourglass. Our time with the sun had officially run out. We shuffled into our sleeping bags, exhausted from the day’s effort and slightly irritated with our decision to start the day so late. The next day we would eat, hydrate, and rest for a second attempt. Luckily, we were gifted with another two days of brilliant weather.
On the morning of our next attempt, we were all up before our alarm had the chance to sound. I melted snow for water as Ben and Austin prepared breakfast and organized gear. We set out before an awakening sun, nearly three hours earlier than our previous attempt. We made quick time on the approach and sped through the initial sections of the climb. By mid-day, we were at our previous highpoint with only a few pitches left to the top. Austin led first, then myself, leading a longer pitch of vertical ice. We moved higher, making our way towards the top of the ridgeline. The sun began to set at a voracious pace. Ben, in a disheveled state, took the rack and brought us to the top of our route. As we huddled in a small alcove, the last emanation of light dissipated. We had only rappelled 60 meters before thick darkness overtook our environment. The temperature dropped quickly, and we moved to beat its harshness. We had climbed another new route, with the sentiment behind this one more significant than our last.
Together, as a team of three, we were chasing the fading light.
– Alex Joseph
