Rick Hudson - travel writer and author

This was published in the Alpine Club of Canada's Bushwhacker magazine, 2004.

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The little matter of Mt Baker

Climbing the Becky Route (North Ridge)

For twenty-four years it’s been on the ‘to do’ list, and never been done. And besides, I promised myself in 1968 when I climbed Kilimanjaro that I’d NEVER climb another volcano. It’s just plod-plod-plod, and that’s not mountaineering. It’s barely hiking. But, seasons pass, and horizons narrow. And still, Mt Baker (3,285m) stood across the straits. As the kids grew up and left home, the slow urge to stand atop its broad white summit and look at the Saanich Peninsula, rather than the other familiar way around, slowly grew from a gentle nag to an irritating urge.

Dawn on the lower glacier.

Christmas 2002 clinched it. I received a voucher from my 23-year old daughter, promising to guide the bearer up Mt Baker, on the weekend of my choice. A quarter century of procrastination ended.

June is a good time. There’s still plenty of snow pack, but the days are long and the weather fair. The party had swelled to 4, as Jacqui had invited two UBC bucks to join us, which spread the weight further. Jer was a tiger in tiger’s clothing, and something of a legend in the VOC. Tim was a medical student who put himself through school as a summer firefighter. Strong, both of them.

We reached the road head (1,130m) for the Heliotrope Ridge Trail about noon on Saturday, and a few hours later set up camp on a patch of gravel between the glaciers at Hogsback (2,000m). The air was warm. So warm, in fact, that we were worried it might not freeze that night.

Long before dawn the next morning we were off, heading for the North Ridge (the Becky Route), which involved a 3-hour traverse across the Coleman and Roosevelt Glaciers, weaving in and out of the many and obvious crevasses. The air was still warm, but the snow firm, and we made good time, popping out into the bright sun on the ridge at 8:00.

The North Ridge is broad and un-crevassed, but half way up, the route is blocked by the rounded snout of the Upper Roosevelt Glacier. Here we turned Jer loose on the ice slope. He led a smooth line, the ice tinkling down the slope past us, the sun coming and going as clouds initially enveloped and then vanished around us. The slope was not too exposed, and the ice in excellent condition. Simul-climbing, we soon had the 80m section below, and the full panorama of the upper mountain began to appear.

Above, a long broad (but calf-strainingly steep) snow slope led to a series of massive seracs. Tracks led left and right through them. We chose the more scenic route, and then quite suddenly, we were on top. A broad level area, about the size of several city blocks, stretched away. Off in the distance to the south a 10m bump (Mt Sherman) constituted the highest point, its smooth snow trampled and cut by countless boots and skis.
Mt Sherman ahead
The summit plateau.

The resemblance to a city block was not inappropriate. It was a glorious Sunday, with little wind and breathtaking vistas in all directions. People ebbed and flowed across the top. Skiers chatted, solemn guides led roped groups in Indian file, yuppies crowed to spouses on their cell-phones. It was just another day in Seattle, and I half expected to see a Starbucks franchise.

Jer had a warning about getting the right descent route. Earlier that spring he had missed the drop-off spot by 100m, and ended up taking 36 hours to get back to camp. In good visibility, we didn’t make that mistake this time, and followed a wide line of pot-holed plunge steps down the tripper route. It took two hours back to the tent for afternoon tea, and the cheerful realization that I had finally tidied up the little matter of Mt Baker on the ‘to do’ list.