Pierre Darbellay and I (PHOTO) just got back from two weeks in the Alaska Range, one of the more enjoyable climbing trips I have been on. Perhaps the fact that we were not slogging up Denali but living it up in basecamp had something to do with it. Then again, my partner’s motivated yet easy-going nature may have helped.

June 4. We left Calgary in the morning and by the afternoon of the following day we were ensconced at the Kahiltna basecamp. Our main objective was the north buttress of Mt. Hunter (PHOTO), but mostly we were just keen to climb whatever looked good. It snowed our first couple of days in basecamp, but we consoled ourselves with the thought that at least we were festering on the glacier rather than in Talkeetna. But lest you picture us lying head to toe in a Bibler, I hurry to add that we had a large sleeping tent, a second tent for storing gear and, most importantly, a well-stocked kitchen tent (PHOTO).

June 8. In the afternoon the weather finally improved enough that we were able to stretch our legs (PHOTO) on the east ridge of Mt. Frances, the small bump immediately above basecamp. The following evening beautifully clear skies once again enticed us out of basecamp, this time up the Southeast Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier, where we spied an aesthetic little gully (PHOTO). The result was “Journey to the End of the Night”, 450 m, WI4+ R. It may have been a new route though who knows, and really, who cares? What mattered was that we spent a magical night, climbing a twisting ribbon of thin ice (PHOTO) through the blue dusk of Alaskan twilight (PHOTO).

The weather was still good by the middle of the following day, and we were kicking ourselves for not having taken advantage of it and gotten on the north buttress. So we packed up and prepared ourselves for an early departure. In the end, however, the weather window proved rather short lived, as we woke to the sound of wet snow slithering down tent walls. The next day was the bleakest yet (PHOTO); in fact, it felt rather like being inside a ping-pong ball. It was quite peaceful, really: no snow, no wind, and no visibility. The ping-pong ball weather continued through a second day and on the morning of the third. But as relaxing as sleeping, eating, reading and hanging out with our fellow basecamp denizens was (PHOTO), we were starting to worry that we would fly out without even setting foot on the north buttress. Fortunately by the afternoon of the third day clouds finally lifted enough to allow a couple of flights, and to motivate us to prepare our packs yet again.

June 14. The alarm went off at 5 a.m. But when we stuck our heads outside the tent, we were greeted by more low cloud. There was nothing for it, so we went back to sleep. We woke three hours later to cloudless skies. Fortunately this was Alaska in June, with twenty-four hour daylight, so we took our time over breakfast before skiing away. I should say at this point that in light of the lateness of the season, we had gone up north with the couloir and icefields of the French Route in mind. But once we saw the north buttress (PHOTO), we found ourselves entranced by the thin white lines of The Moonflower, and in the end decided that we would rather attempt what we judged to be the prettier route.

We crossed the bergschrund shortly after noon and by 8 p.m. we were anchored just down and right of Mascioli’s mushroom, one pitch away from the base of The Shaft (PHOTO). Up to that point the climbing had been brilliant: narrow runnels of ice between walls of perfect granite (PHOTO), connected by spectacular traverses (PHOTO). It was made all the more pleasant by the light packs we were carrying (PHOTO): a couple of parkas, waterbottles, some bars and gels and a stove were the sum total of our bivi gear. I guess we are both lazy and dislike carrying heavy packs. That, and the short weather windows of the Alaska Range, convinced us to approach The Moonflower as an overgrown day route.

But let us return to that stance at the top of the First Icefield. As good as some of the climbing had been below, the rotten, detached ice in the Twin Runnels (PHOTO) but especially on The Prow (PHOTO) was a spooky reminder of the lateness of the season. As we neared our high point, we were increasingly drytooling around the disintegrating remains of what was once ice. In the end, we decided that slush and running water were not what we had signed up for and headed down. Twelve rappels later we were back at our skis, disappointed but also happy to have at least been given a shot at the route.

There is not much more to tell. We spent next day, our second to last in basecamp, lounging under more cloudless skies (proving that if you wait long enough, you can get more than twenty four hours of good weather in Alaska). Taking advantage of the high pressure to get in one more climb, the following morning we were away by 3 a.m., bound for the North Couloir on the Mini Moonflower (PHOTO). Repetitive, almost trance-like simulclimbing up the lower ice slope (PHOTO) led to the narrow crux (PHOTO) and into the upper couloir. Resisting the temptation to stop at the top of the ice and, ahem, the end of the difficulties, we drilled our way through the cornice (PHOTO) and onto the summit (if that is what a little bump in the northeast ridge of Mt. Hunter can be called). We took in the spectacular view of Mt. Huntington (PHOTO) then hurried down. We had a plane to catch.

That evening, showered and changed, we nursed dark beers in the Fairview Inn. While we were in basecamp, summer had come to Talkeetna (PHOTO). The Kahiltna glacier and the mountains rearing above it seemed like a half-forgotten dream (PHOTO).