Mt. Adams (12,276'), in the South Cascades -- a first higher-altitude experience

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I've had the privilege of hiking enough to achieve the 3-season NH 48, complete nearly two-thirds of the same in winter so far, hike Katahdin in Maine, all five Vermont 4000-footers, and a couple peaks in the Adirondacks in New York. But I'd not yet had the opportunity to ascend higher than Mt. Washington's 6,288 feet, the highest altitude in the northeast. For some time I had wanted to hike out west, where many, many peaks rise to well over 10,000 feet. I was fortunate enough to have that opportunity with a trip to Portland, Oregon for a work-related conference.

While Portland isn't part of the Rocky Mountains, I quickly found that it did offer some great, higher-altitude options, as it lay just west of the Cascade Range, a major mountain range that extends from British Columbia, through Washington and Oregon and down into northern California. There were a few options, all within just a couple hours. The pointy summit of Mt. Hood (11,250') lay prominently to the east of Portland, still within Oregon. And, over the border into Washington State, Mt. Adams (12,276') was just an hour or so north of that, and Mount Saint Helens (8,366') was visible to the northeast. And, of course, there's Mt. Rainier (14,411'), the highest peak in the lower 48 states, just a little bit farther north.

Through research, I found Mts. Hood and Rainier to be not-so-practical options since they require either technical climbing or equipment, something I didn't feel so ready to jump into. I've since heard that the south route up from Timberline Lodge offers a reasonably straightforward ascent, and Rainier is mostly straightforward, though equipment is still required for crevasse danger on glaciers.

Mt. Adams, however, looked to be an excellent option, and it happened to be the highest of the three in the more immediate vicinity anyway, save Rainier, which would be a longer, more involved trek. After reading numerous trip reports and the more official descriptions of the mountain, Adams proved to be my best bet for a first higher-altitude experience.

I decided on a plan that I hoped would address my acclimatization concerns, as many start feeling the effects of the thinner air once you approach 10,000 feet. While Mt. Adams is just a 12 or so mile round-trip hike that can be done in one day, the route ascends 6,700 vertical feet in about 6 miles, which isn't something to take lightly. I didn't want to push my luck, having not been anywhere near that high before, and having no experience hiking glaciers, nor in the west at all. The first part of the hike is quite easy but once you get to the 9,000 foot elevation, you're hiking on snow/ice and the pitches become quite steep, making for a very long day of hiking.

So, I put together a sensible and safe plan:

Day 0 - drive to the South Climb #183 trailhead (5,400') and car-camp overnight
Day 1 - hike up to the "Lunch Counter," a plateau that lies at about 9,400' and features numerous tent platforms shielded by makeshift rock walls; tent overnight
Day 2 - push to the summit and hike all the way down

This plan would provide ample time to acclimatize at approximately one-third and two-thirds the total altitude of the mountain. The overnights especially would be very helpful; this is the kind of thing mountaineers do when they prepare to summit the highest peaks in the world. With the very high peaks, it is customary to climb a few thousand feet, acclimatize for a day or more, hike back down, ascend a little higher, acclimatize, hike all the way down again, hike back up further, and so on. This is really only an issue once you start getting above, say, 20,000 feet, where the oxygen levels in the air get very low. With Adams, I would be just a few thousand feet beyond the point where the air starts to get thinner, so this "3-day" acclimatization should be more than enough.

All this planning and acclimatization are very important, for with high-altitude mountaineering, there is the possibility of two serious medical conditions that the large change in altitude can bring on: HACE (High-Altitude Cerebral Edema) and HAPE (High-Altitude Pulmonary Edema). They involve the deficiency of oxygen to the brain, and lungs, respectively. When you're not careful, the quick loss of oxygen can starve the body of the essential oxygen it needs, and these conditions can and do cause serious illness, and even death. Again, this is not so much a real/certain issue until you get into the 20,000-foot altitude ranges or higher, but it's still something to consider, and plan for.

In addition to the overnights, I would follow two more important practices to help ensure these conditions don't happen, and I remain healthy and strong throughout the hike.

The first involves measured, deep breathing to maximize oxygen intake, as well as minimize the amount of carbon dioxide in the body. You slowly and deeply breathe in through both mouth and nose, flaring your nostrils to maximize air intake; then you exhale quickly and somewhat forcefully through the mouth, using pursed lips. Variations of this technique are well-documented and help prevent the higher-altitude symptoms many feel once they ascend beyond around 10,000 feet (headaches, dizziness, fatigue, nausea, loss of appetite, and a general feeling of malaise).

The second practice would be the "rest step," which is excellent at conserving muscle energy and a key part of lengthening endurance up high. You step up and kick the toes of one foot into the snow to establish your ascent step, while straightening and locking your downslope leg so it holds the majority of your body weight. By locking the knee, you're making your skeleton hold the weight of the body (and the pack you're wearing), giving your muscles and tendons a valuable break so they don't get tired. In between each step, as you're back leg is locked in place, you wait a second or more, resting enough to make sure your heart rate stays low and maintainable. This helps prevent perspiration so you don't have to hydrate as much, and it saves your body from requiring more oxygen, which gets to be in shorter supply, the higher you go.

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I had planned to do this hike with a few other people I met via a Portland-area meetup group. Unfortunately, one backed out a week or so ahead, and the other two backed out in the final days before the hike. I was not deterred in any way; in fact, it provided for me the flexibility I usually prefer in making my own schedule, and hiking at my own pace. Sure, I would have to hike up all the gear and supplies I would need, including tent, sleeping bag, pad, water, food, clothes, etc. -- but I was confident I could do this even if I needed to take breaks along the way. I had done a lot of research, and was very confident in my ability to pull this off. Besides, this is a popular mountain and I knew I wouldn't be alone for long.

I flew into Portland a little after lunch, and grabbed the rental car, and headed west toward Adams. Before leaving civilization and heading up to the trailhead, I needed to purchase a Cascades Volcano Pass, required for anyone hiking above 10,000 feet in the South Cascades of Washington State. Like most, I got mine at the Trout Lake Ranger Station, located within Trout Lake, the last town you pass through on the way to the trailhead. You can get the pass, along with a good deal of other information, during or after business hours there. Fun fact: they also offer pre-made ziplog bags that contain a paper bag with some kitty litter in it, to help stem the recent, sharp increase in fecal matter on the mountain. Great...

Pass in hand, I continued my drive into the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, named after the first chief of the US Forest Service. Wider paved roads turned to forest roads, roughly paved at first, then dirt, and eventually narrowed to just one car width. As the road started climbing in earnest it became quite winding and crooked as well, switching back and forth so as to avoid climbing so steeply straight up. My little Toyota Yaris did a fine job navigating dips and bumps in the road, but I was thankful the conditions were nice and dry...

As I proceeded up the road, the landscape changed dramatically as I entered the large area around the South Climb #183 trailhead that burned in the Cascade Creek fire of 2012. The difference was stark and depressing, seeing tree after tree reduced to barren stubs, charred and largely stripped of their branches. This is something you just don't see in the northeast, something I'm truly grateful for. One doesn't realize the devastation and the importance of good fire safety in the outdoors until you see destruction such as this. While many of these fires begin with lightning strikes, some are due to negligence; regardless, the conditions are simply much drier in the west during the summer months.

I soon reached the trailhead, where about 5-10 cars were parked. Some had tents set up next to them, a sign that those people were likely tenting overnight for a one-day hike of the mountain. It may have been that some were doing what I was doing, but I got the sense that most either hike up in one long day, or arrive and hike up later in the day for a single overnight, skipping the extra night at the trailhead. I was simply playing it very safe for my first experience.

I parked my little rental car in a little cove parking spot near the trailhead kiosk and set up the car camp. While the car was very, very small, the back seats folded down mostly flat and I was able to get a relatively comfortable sleep. I couldn't stretch out like I could in my Subaru Outback wagon, but the fetal position worked nicely.

The next morning, I got some food together, double/triple-checked my pack, and started up the trail. It was easy to follow, a mostly-sand track that traveled along for quite a while, climbing very gradually. Weather was quite good, with temps in the mid-70s under mostly sunny skies. I was grateful, as temps down at sea/river level were rising into the high 90s during this time! I caught regular glimpses of the summit ahead as I progressed, raising my excitement level more and more.

There were very few people on the trails, which I was happy about. I had read that the mountain gets very, very crowded on weekends, so I planned my trip to fall on a Friday/Saturday, hiking up in the morning on Friday, hoping I would beat most of the crowds to the Lunch Counter to find a good tent spot. This should help me avoid more of the crowds on Saturday as well, since I'd be far up the mountain already for the summit push.

Conditions were very dry, and dust was a common theme on this hike and the others I did in the area. Wildflowers were a staple as well throughout; purple lupines, white daisies, and other red and yellow blooms were scattered along the trail in clumps; very pretty, and a welcome contrast to the wildfire destruction.

The trail soon entered rockier, steeper territory. Still, the going wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, considering I was carrying a pack weighing close to 40 pounds. In addition to the gear and supplies mentioned earlier, I packed five liters of water, hoping that would be enough to sustain me for the two days and one night of hiking/camping (it turned out to be just right, for me anyway). It was the overall weight and the heavy pack that I was most worried about, since I'd not carried this much for quite some time, and I had been dealing with patella femoral syndrome issues in my knees earlier in the year.

I eventually reached snow - the Crescent glacier, one of many on Mt. Adams, laying just under the Lunch Counter. It wasn't particularly steep, and the winter boots I was wearing were sufficient for the job without the need for any traction. My phone-based map and GPS -- I had a compass and printed map as well, just in case -- led me quite well up to this point, though the official trail ended here on the maps. I had a detailed trail description I printed out as well, which was invaluable in helping guide me the rest of the way.

At the top of the glacier, I reached the Lunch Counter, passing numerous tent sites along the way. I went up as high as I could, as I wanted to be as close to the start of the next day's summit push as possible. There were very few people tenting at that point, so I had an excellent selection of sites from which to choose. Time was about 13:00.

I chose one of the very highest sites and set up camp. Winds were relatively low and temps remained within a very comfortable range, and I had several hours to kill before nightfall. It was a great feeling being so high, and having the time to just "be" and enjoy the environment. I took a nap, had some water and snacks here and there, and even made an instant meal with my JetBoil: Jamaican Jerk Chicken and Rice. It was quite good! (Pretty much all hot food tastes awesome after a day of hiking.)

To this point I did not feel any sign of altitude sickness. I had taken some Advil earlier in the day, mostly to head off any knee issues that might crop up; that was perhaps still helping. But I was following the breathing technique pretty religiously on the way up -- something I think made the real difference.

I turned in at a decent hour, with no real plan of when to wake up and head for the summit. I knew I would start seeing/hearing people pass by on their way up as early as 05:00, and perhaps earlier for those that were camping out like I was and wanted to be at the summit for sunrise (something I did not feel was so critical for my experience). It would be very, very helpful to be able to leave the tent and other supplies in place while I hiked up to the summit with a very light pack. I'd be packing everything up and out on the way down.

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Once the sun went down in earnest, the wind really picked up. The rock walls helped a little, but they were only two to three feet high. The tent was shaking a good deal, with stronger gusts shoving the upper half pretty much in all directions. Being inside the tent in these conditions reminded me of footage from Everest expeditions, where tents would be thrashed as the wind bore down on them. Of course, the speeds weren't anywhere near that of Everest but they were strong, and as the night went on the corners of tent were drawing inward, leading to a "caving in" feeling. I had tied the tent to the walls, but couldn't use stakes since I was on a rock platform with only a very shallow, fine sand layer on top. It occurred to me I could place a few small boulders at the corners and along the walls inside the tent to help keep it secure and in shape. This worked to keep the tent secure and spacious enough inside despite the wind. I'll need to get a different tent for this type of camping above treeline, as the one I have doesn't have a fly that remains tight against the base; so wind would come in at the base of the fly, up, and into the tent. True mountaineering tents do a better job here, I'm sure.

Around 6:30 the next morning I was up and about, cooked myself some oatmeal, and packed my much leaner pack for the summit push. I was looking very forward to being much more nimble on this stretch of the hike! Aside from about two liters of water, I had some food, first aid kit, two poles, an ice axe, crampons, additional warm and wind layers, my map/compass, phone/GPS, and camera. It all amounted to perhaps several pounds at most; way lighter than the whole deal I had carried to this point.

Beyond the Lunch Counter, the real climbing begins. At this point, I put on my crampons and had my poles out to start up the very steep snow field next to Suksdorf Ridge, up to a "false summit" that lay just below Piker's Peak, just under/before Adams. The going was very slow along this stretch due to the 30-degree-or-so pitch, but my use of the rest step and the deep breathing technique made the going relatively easy and consistent. There were several groups of hikers heading up, along with several smaller parties of one to three or four; as one encounters anywhere, I was slower than some, and faster than others, but the way was wide enough that I could continue unencumbered. I could tell my techniques were helping me move at a nice, steady clip, without overwhelming myself. Once in a while I would feel my body call out for more air, feeling for a split second as though I might begin to faint. I merely had to start deeper breathing again, focusing on the rest step as well, and I'd be fine within seconds. It did take some practice and determination to continue doing this at regular intervals, especially where the hiking became steep, but it became somewhat second nature after a while. Thankfully it never got to the point where I needed to do this breathing constantly, like I'm sure I'd need to at much higher altitudes.

Once I reached the top of that first steep climb up the snow field, the edge of the true summit of Adams came into view with its old fire lookout building partially exposed. The weather was outstanding, with clear blue skies and little wind. These are conditions I was hoping for, and my adrenaline level was through the roof. I was experiencing what I had looked forward to for some time, and under the best conditions; I was very thankful this was working out well.

The Adams summit up and slightly to the left, Piker's Peak was also calling off to the right, so I decided to veer in that direction to tag it, since it involved just a little extra climb. As I neared the peak summit, I saw that some crevasses had formed from large blocks of snow falling down a steep slope on the right/opposite side. I could actually see down into the crevasse; while it didn't seem that deep, I wasn't taking any chances. It wasn't clear that the peak itself was safe since I couldn't see beyond the edge of this drop, so I didn't continue to the very top. However, I felt I was as high or higher as the summit since it was completely covered in deep snow anyway.

I hiked a very short distance down into the col between Piker's and the Adams summit cone proper, then started up the final pitch. It was another, slightly less steep and shorter climb up to the fire lookout tower, the favorite hangout for most -- though the true summit high point lay a short distance away via a nearly-flat incline. The abandoned tower was built in 1918 and officially used only three years, from 1921 to 1924. Miners who removed volcanic sulfur from the summit vents used the shelter for a couple decades beyond that, then it became abandoned and "entombed" in snow by the mid-20th century.

I spent the better part of an hour on this broad summit, taking photos, exploring what I could of the nearly buried-in-snow lookout building, and gazing out at the different peaks in the distance: Hood and Jefferson to the south, Mount Saint Helens to the west, and Rainier to the north.

Reaching the summit and standing atop it was an emotional experience for me, having been the attainment of an important goal of mine, and the product of so much planning and work to reach that point. I now knew I could relatively easily handle an ascent into at least the lower altitude-challenging range, with no ill effects from altitude or even in my knees. I felt great, both physically and mentally.

All things being relative, of course, this was the first "Everest" kind of climb for me, representing a great deal of planning and effort. I hiked in a great deal of gear, camped above treeline, scaled some very steep pitches on glaciers, and remained unaffected by an altitude that is considered higher and certainly far surpassed all others I'd achieved. I'm truly thankful for the freedom and ability to achieve such an accomplishment, and for the support my family and friends gave me in doing it.

With some trepidation, I started my way down. Much of the way back to the tent being covered in snow, and steep, I took the opportunity to experience the most exhilarating glissading I ever had. What took me around three hours to climb up, took perhaps 45 minutes at most to descend. Glissading at these steep pitches is nothing like that in the Northeast - an ice axe is essentially required to keep your speed down. Even with all my strength digging the ice axe into the snow as I slid down, I think I had reached perhaps 10 miles per hour at points. It got real dicey at times! But it was pretty incredible, and a fine way to celebrate such a perfect summit ascent. Just be sure to read up on the best and safe way to hold the ice axe, so you don't gash your leg or end up puncturing your chest, neck, or head. And never wear crampons while glissading!

Back at the Lunch Counter, I packed up my tent and other supplies and started my way down. Lots of people were on the mountain by this time; literally a couple hundred or so. Being a Saturday in summer with perfect weather, I wasn't surprised.

The hike down was pretty straightforward, not too bad on the knees at all. As I descended in altitude and the weather warmed, though, I was feeling more and more spent; this was not your normal day hike after all. At one point I slipped on a small pebble as I was stepping down and fell onto my left forearm, scraping it pretty badly. One of my poles took a good beating and doesn't quite close up any more because of it, but at least I didn't break any bones!

I was back to the trailhead by around 5:00. What a difference a day makes; all those people on the mountain did indeed translate to a veritable sea of cars at the trailhead, parked in every nook and cranny, and quite far down the forest road, too. I was very happy I planned the hike for the days I did.

This is a hike I'll never forget. I'm grateful and blessed to have been treated to such great weather, and been able to prove to myself that I can handle higher altitudes with relative ease. I'm driven now, more than ever, to take it to the next level as soon I get the chance. I look forward to hiking some 14,000+ foot peaks in the Rockies, and perhaps even Mount Rainier some day. Onward and upward!

A fascinating report, thanks for sharing. I hope you'll post some pictures.

Careful preparation and methodical execution paid off. And fine weather didn't hurt!
Congratulations on a new personal high. Your report was wonderful.