Russian Wilderness

In 2011, my dad, brother and I hiked up to Russian Lake, camped for one night, and then rushed to the emergency room after my brother filleted his leg open with a tin can lid. No joke, muscle hanging out, it was frightening. Since then, I have always wanted to go back. Lauren fancies herself as having Russian blood, so it was a perfect match. 

After spending a night with my pops, helping him with the crossword, listening to a few rants about the hippies in Willow Creek, preparing our packs, we drove through Forks of the Salmon and up to the trail head. 

I'll put this question to the readers; of there two trail head pictures do you prefer the calm, cool, collected and casual shot of me and my customized walking stick....

or Lauren's Good Living Magazine, hand-on-hips, gosh golly darn shot?

Hmmmhmmm. She did improve a bit as we hiked.

The Deacon Lee trail hikes along this ridge, then makes its way around a few peaks. From this vantage point, you can see the Pacific Crest Trail cut into the side of the distant mountain.

The first lake you hit is Waterdog Lake. Good fishing, a couple of nice campsites. 

But the second lake you hit is Russian Lake. Surrounded by granite walls, perched on the edge of a cliff, so deep and blue, it's a little scary. 

This is the view from our campsite. Lauren agrees that it's a little nicer than the view from her old apartment on Telegraph, which was usually of Tom, the pants-less gardener/ rat keeper. 

One of the best presents ever was this packpacking hammock. Every evening, we could be found reading in there. Very peaceful considering I was reading about the brutality of the Commanche/Texas wars.

Other activities included, fossil finding...

...fishing...

...swimming..

and making Pink Squirrels. A delicate blend of vodka and Crystal Light Pink Grapefruit Powder, something that is only drinkable in very specific situations like backpacking.

When we first showed up, there was this older couple nakedly lounging on a rock. We made a few jokes and tried not to stare. The next day they took off and, soon after, we didn't really see the point in bathing suits either.

During the day we did some exploring down to Lower Russian Lake and Golden Russian Lake

We found a secret fishing camp complete with skillet.

We even found the spot where my brother almost lost his poor leg.

But our lake was still the best by far.

Goodbye Russian Lake. Goodbye.

Pop's birthday on Mt. Shasta

I had attempted both Mt. Shasta, and the sister peak, Shastina three weeks earlier  with some friends. We didn't quite make it to both, and it haunted me. I couldn't really stop thinking about it. I made plans to go back with my dad and brother for my dad's birthday. We were attempting a different, more remote, route on the south side of the mountain this time, Clear Creek. We camped the first night at Bunny Flat and made the hour drive to the Clear Creak Trail Head in the morning. I was so excited, I actually forgot to take any pictures. So, let's start in the morning. 

 Two of us were completely prepared with proper, lightweight gear, just enough water and food, a good night's rest. And then there was Matt....

who managed to eat about 5 bratwursts, drink a 6 pack, and get up 3 or 5 times during the night to pee. But hey, look at him, no complaints.  "My snowboarding stuff will work fine," he says.

The hike to base camp is a little over three miles. Not too steep, pretty shady. The snow at the trail head was melted for the most part. It made for easy trail following, and a much more mellow hike than I was expecting. I should note, it was not as easy for some.

 

They were tired, but of course they had time for some good ol fashion ranting.

Matt's comment is especially funny when you consider what happens later, on the mountain. 

I wore this for sun protection primarily, but it also made me feel like Snake Eyes from G.I. Joe. He was always my favorite. 

and that shit caught on like wildfire.

 

The dirt trail slowly transitioned into snow. It got steeper. The packs started to feel much heavier. My nipple made it's first imposing appearance.

But spirits were still high, and no, that isn't some lame innuendo just because it looks like my dad is stoned and passing his two sons a joint right here.

Here, you can see the top of the ridge, where it opens up into a few very nice camping spots, and even has a running spring nearby. We chose the highest spot for our basecamp, around 10,000 feet just above Clear Creek Meadows.

 

As the sun went down, we ate, they talked about El Pato and BBQs, and I tried my best to pick out and memorize the route we would take at 2am the next morning. I had no GPS, but had 3 maps, and had read just about every account of the Clear Creek climb. Still, it seems pretty simple in a book. When you are looking up at the peak, the scale is surprisingly intimidating.

After several hundreds of dollars in gear purchases, there was one thing I wasn't prepared for, the heat. That night was very warm, and I woke up every hour to take off another layer of clothing. About ten minutes from being totally nude, I hear other climbers start to make their way up the mountain. Christ, this will be difficult with one hour of sleep. Matt taps me on the shoulder and we start preparing for our climb. Kinda like in Commando or Rambo, lots of straps being pulled tight, clips clipping, zippers zipping, and a cold hard stare to finish it off. 

Pops stayed behind to monitor our progress via walkie-talkie. He chose the handle "Sherpa 20."

The first picture I am able to take is when the sun starts creeping up around the mountain at about 4am. 

We are making good progress. The other climbers we started with were left far behind. They didn't seem to know where they were going either. 

You can see Matt in the lower left. For those of you who know him, you will agree that it's pretty rare when he isn't up to a nearly impossible physical challenge, but big brother had some altitude sickness, labored breathing, nausea, dizziness. Not a good combination for climbing a steep, icy mountain. I secretly revelled in the fact that I was finally better at him than something, but tried to act concerned and waited up for him.

Luckily, there were still some tracks left from the days before, so you could more or less follow trails. We also teamed up with some dudes from Oregon who were in a similar position as us, kinda knew where they were going but there was still a strong chance of ending up like a Uruguayan soccer team in the Andes.

 

It got colder, the air got thinner, and Matt's conditioned worsened. I offered to go back down with him but he would not consider it. "There is no way in hell I'm going back to work on Monday with only an excuse of why I didn't summit."

So, we had spent about 7 hours climbing toward this crop of rocks. The summit!

Well, not quite. This was a giant headwall of rock that obscured the view of the summit.  I realized that we had about 2 more hours of climbing (misery) to go. To give you an idea of scale, the guys a few minutes ahead of me are just tiny specs on this landscape. Here, you can go left, traverse a glacier and meet up with the traffic on misery hill, or cut right (just to the right of the large rock on the skinny strip of snow). We went right, and didn't know it at the time but chose the much more difficult route.

I finally reached the summit plateau.  You can see climbers to the right cresting Misery Hill. Once I climbed to the top, I yelled down to Matt, "I can see the summit!" What Matt heard was "This is the summit!" I actually started feeling bad about now. He was almost on his hands and knees wanting to throw up at every step and we still had some climbing to do.

After 9 hours, at around 11am, we reached the summit. Matt was about 30 minutes behind me, and accidentally climbed this huge slope, unnecessarily. I watched this from the peak, tried to yell directions, sort of laughed. Eventually, we both made it to the top, touched the marker, signed the log book and just kind of sat stunned for a while.

There is really nothing that can describe the feeling of standing on a mountain after such intense discomfort. This strange euphoria hits you. You can't tell if it's because of the sense of accomplishment, the state of complete awe looking out at the view, or the lack of oxygen and complete physical fatigue. Either way, the feeling is fiercely addicting.

Since the snow was melting quickly, and Matt couldn't really hike any further, we decided to glissade down the mountain. And holy hell, I don't think I have ever had this much fun. You take your crampons off, use your ice axe as a rudder, and slide on your ass right down slope. 9 hours up, 2 hours down. Nothing better.

Matt's condition  was improving quickly. This is the first moment in which I was sure he was going to survive:

My Dad was waiting down below. It sure looks like he had a leisurely morning, got up late, had some coffee, read a book. He was awfully proud of us though!

After this exhausting climb we got to......do some more hiking. We got back to our camp, packed up, and made our way down to the parking lot. I stopped to look back a few times. I don't want to forget that, in California, we are truly blessed with places such as these.

We return safely and start the journey back home. Happy Birthday, Dad!
(My Dad also got to glissade a bit).