Climbing on Snowy Mountain

Tuesday, 5th August, 2008

by Jay Harrison

The Adventure Begins

Since the new guidebook has come out, hardcore climbers have been flipping through the chapters choosing new destinations to explore. One highlight on my list - at least in part because long ago I wanted to explore it - is the face of Snowy Mountain. Standing high above Indian Lake, the white face of Snowy shines out more like a wall typical of the High Peaks than the usual rock gashes of the southern Adirondacks. Perhaps this is not so surprising, given that Snowy is as tall as many of the mountains in the High Peaks, taller in fact than some of the famous "46ers," but in any case, it casts a unique visage on boaters and campers below; a compelling prospect to any climbers who see it. This past Tuesday was my opportunity to check this mysterious, remote crag off my to-do list.

Jason picked me up a bit past 7am, and together we drove across the desolate stretch of Route 8, passing Shanty Cliffs with nary a nod, tooling through Speculator without a thought for the nearby Quarry walls, speeding onward toward Snowy.

We decided to try our luck at the shorter approach, and so, after going to the official trailhead, turned back to find our pullout. This turns out to be little more than a wide patch of grassy verge. A van was already parked there - could it be that Snowy would have two parties climbing on it today? We gathered our gear quickly, as the guidebook stated we needed nothing more than fifteen quickdraws and a 4 inch cam.

The Lost Boys

Into the woods we went, on a well-worn, neatly trimmed path. Someone has recently gone to town with this thoroughfare. Fresh sawdust lies on the ground wherever a fallen log crosses the way, and the one log too big to cut through has a neat step chopped into it. Where the trail rises along an open ridge, the way has been brush-cut through acres of raspberry brambles. On each side, intruding branches have been clipped to ease passage. This path was nearly as good as the "official" DEC trail. We began to think we might gain a bit of time for more climbing on the cliffs.

The trail cut farther north than we expected, but we chocked this up to rerouting issues. The guidebook said the trail ran through a marshy section, and we surmised that perhaps it had been moved to avoid this damp area. We strode up and over to the east side of a ridge in about a half hour, then held steady until we came to an old, handmade sign pointing left to a large, huecoed boulder. The sign had obviously been here awhile, several years at least. A short distance past this height-of-land and the trail began descending steeply into what I recognized is the Griffin Brook drainage, one valley north of where we wanted to be. We could glimpse the popular ski slide at about our elevation, farther up the valley. The trail, manicured as it was, despite its blue blazing, was not the correct one. Somewhere along the line, we had missed a vital turn - or we had started on the wrong trail entirely. Whatever: we now had to either return along the trail, searching for a cutoff, or begin bushwhacking.

Anyone who has ever gone off-trail near Snowy Mountain knows better than to do it again, so of course we did just that, returning to the boulder and marching straight into an oblivion of thick-thatched balsam and spruce knitting themselves down the other side of the ridge. We came to a steep section that offered a window to the southwest, and for the first time, we could see our destination, away across the wide, contorted rills of Forks Brook ravine. Our schedule was in for a beating.

As were our bodies: we tumbled down the slope to escape the evergreen web, only to struggle through another one, woven of hobblebush. Brief respites of open beech forest or ferny glades helped us gain on our objective, but also steered us in their own directions. The day was turning a bit ludicrous, something we'd both known would happen the moment we set foot off-trail. I won't go into farther detail about that bushwhack, only to recommend stringently against repeating it.

We finally broke out along the lower slabs and slid down its grassy terminus, an hour behind schedule, weary and torn, but undefeated. We had arrived despite the mistake, here at our first climbing objective. Looking up at the slab, I was reminded of Tuolumne Meadows' domes: bright white stone sculpted by water with rounded vertical ridges and troughs; nothing quite so deep as Lembert's infamous Water Cracks, but noticeable shaping nonetheless. Of course, this rock was much, much dirtier than the dry, clean climate of Yosemite allows at ten thousand feet. Dark moss streaked even the steepest rock and appeared to all but carpet the upper, low-angled pitches. I could see a wealth of potential climbing routes here, but each would need a dedicated scouring and a wealth of bolts.

Iditarod

5.8 Friction Turns to 5.8 A1 for Cowboy Wannabe

p.527

Our first intended route, Iditarod, begins at the low point of the slab, near its left side. The lowest bit of slab is overgrown and wet, but a handy inverted birch tree provided passage to a higher, drier ledge as a starting point. From here, the route lies a bit farther right along a modest bit of friction to a ten foot high crack. The first bolt is just to the right of this feature, two-thirds of the way up its height. The next bolt lies about four feet straight above the crack's upper end. A line of metal marches up the cliff from there, shifting left along a narrow black streak after the first thirty feet.

Jason was itching for a shot at this route, so after eating a quick snack, he tied into the sharp end, collected our stash of quickdraws, and traversed over to the route's main line. After clipping the first bolt, he was stymied by the ensuing friction. As that sort of climbing is my forte, he opted to swap ends with me.

Over I came to inspect the situation. The crack appears to be the solution to the ten feet from the first bolt to the second, but it is currently dripping water and swathed in a thin coating of moss and algae. It is effectively useless. Without a wire brush, scraper, and cordless blow-drier, some other means was necessary. One short section of steep rock, beginning below the first bolt and ending just shy of the second bolt, refused to hold my feet with friction. I began a session of stepping up and sliding down that grew more ridiculous with each attempt. Farther right was hopeless, as the angle was even steeper. Far off to the left, directly above Jason, a slight undulation might offer passage, but a slip would send me into my belayer, sending us both down to the bottom of the cliff. It was laughingly obvious that the crack held the answer, but we hadn't included the necessary tools to clean it in our gear list. Either we would have to back off our first route, or use other means to advance.

I tried stepping on the bolt, but was still far from reaching the next one, and equally uninspired by the continuing lack of purchase between this new highpoint and that protection. A fall would likely be harmless, but not pleasant, as I would end up in a headfirst tumble. I didn't like the idea of spending the rest of the day bruised and scraped. Carefully, I stepped down to easier footing and considered my options. I really didn't want to give up on this route. It looked like it would go after this short bit, but I had to find a way through the obstacle. Suddenly I had an epiphany: pulling out my cordalette, I stepped back up on the bolt. Already on aid, this bit of cheating didn't matter any longer. I aimed and threw, missed, tried again. Finally, a loop of cordalette lay around the higher bolt. Carefully drawing it down onto the hanger, keeping my hand low against the slab, I gave a test pull. It seemed secure. With a "watch me," I grabbed the cord and hauled myself up, victoriously clipping the second bolt. We were on our way!

That wasn't the end of our troubles on Iditarod. Although the angle eases, the entire rest of the first pitch is an ongoing dance of holdless friction. I'm a bit on the short side, and every bolt seemed to be placed just out of my reach. I was constantly stepping off whatever minimal stances were available onto pure friction and struggling to clip bolts before my feet slipped. What divots, cups and rugosities exist are dirty, fringed with damp moss. The final runout to the anchor is exceptionally long and scary: falling just shy of clipping into it would run close to thirty feet. And the bolts are all rusty, the belay anchor is ancient nylon. Iditarod is not in good shape.

All the same, despite the dampness, the frightening runouts, the rust and decay, I thoroughly enjoyed this route, and will return to do it - albeit with a wire brush! - if I ever return to the cliffs of Snowy Mountain. Friction climbing such as this elminates the advantages of strength and height, forcing a climber to excel at balance and foot-placement. Our rating system does not serve this climbing style well, as the physical effort to do a route like Iditarod is nothing like that of a "standard" 5.8, but the mental demands are much greater.

After the first pitch, Iditarod settles down to easy slab-climbing for three pitches. There is one bolt between each anchor for the second pitch and perhaps another midpoint one on the third, though by then the angle is trivial. Jason led past me and placed a Tibloc rig on the second pitch's anchor, allowing us to simulclimb through to the thin belt of trees that mark the access to the main cliff. At these, we unroped and followed blue arrows left and upward toward the headwall of Snowy Mountain.

On to the
Snowy Mountain Headwall