The Cascade Mountains, Oregon

by G. A. Salmon

Recently I returned from spending two pleasant years in the State of Oregon, U.S.A. The average Englishman will either confess complete ignorance of Oregon, or will mumble vaguely about the Oregon Trail, or the pines, but the informed mountaineer will associate Oregon with the Cascade Mountains and will be able to supply suitable statistics. He will tell you that this is a range of volcanos that separates from the Canadian mountain mass, runs south for over 600 miles through Washington and Oregon at a distance of about 140 miles from the Pacific Ocean, and finally loses its identity again by merging into the Californian Sierras and Coast Range. He might also tell you of its 14,000 foot peaks Mount Rainier and Mount Shasta, or of the great 12,000 foot peak, Mount Mazama, which blew off its top 5,000 feet to leave a huge crater 6 miles in diameter containing a lake of almost incredible clarity and blueness.

The Cascades have many spectacular features, but to those accustomed to British mountains or the Alps perhaps the most noticeable are the forests. As you look out westward from the summit of one of the high peaks, often taking in a hundred miles or more at one glance, the forest stretches out below you, an all-enveloping green blanket that fills the valleys, rolls over the foothills, and climbs up to the very foot of the peaks. To the east a very different view meets the eye; the trees straggle only a few short miles from the mountains, out on to the glaring sandy plain.

These forests with their great Douglas Firs, often more than 200 ft. tall, owe their existence to a combination of an annual rainfall which is high even by British standards, and to a large number of hours of sunshine. The rainfall takes place almost entirely during the winter and early spring, and between May and October the sun can be relied upon to shine out of a cloudless sky, except perhaps during brief interruptions from an occasional thunderstorm. This winter rain and summer sunshine, besides being conducive to tree growth, provides ample opportunity for the favourite mountain pastimes. Skiing, either downhill or cross-country, can be continued to the end of May, and by then conditions become suitable for attempts on the higher mountains.

Living in Eugene, about 80 miles from the crest of the Cascades, I was within sight of a group of snow-capped peaks; on clear days in the winter I could see from my office window, visible above the lower intervening ridges, the sparkling summits of the North and Middle Sisters (10,094 ft. and 10,053 ft.). These peaks form part of a group, the Three Sisters, which lies to the south of the McKenzie pass; to the north of the pass is Mount Washington, a peak that in spite of its inferior height (7,808 ft)), does its best to imitate the Matterhorn.

Between Mount Washington and the North Sister, a distance of about 12 miles, is a number of low craters, Belknap Crater, Yapoah Crater, and Black Crater, which barely a thousand years ago spewed out vast lava flows to leave the whole area of the pass a contorted sea of black rock, forty or more square miles in area. Walking amongst the lava flows gives one an impression of confusion which must be something akin to that experienced in the midst of some vast Himalayan ice fall; pinnacles, giant blocks of obsidian, ridges and depressions make up a most unearthly scene.

The pass is in fact misnamed since the source of the McKenzie river is not in the area surrounding the pass; it rises in a number of small lakes some distance to the west of the crest of the range and flows south, parallel to the mountains, for fifteen to twenty miles before turning west down the deeply cut valley which carries it towards Eugene and its confluence with the Willamette River. The road to the pass leaves the main valley near the elbow bend in the river and follows the White Branch, a stream that has its source in the largest glacier on the Sisters. This glacier was undoubtedly responsible in some bygone age for the deeply cut trough down which the stream now flows. The road follows the valley bottom and so climbs only slowly until it reaches the head wall; there it goes up steeply in a series of tight Z-bends and finally levels out amidst the wilderness of lava that surrounds the pass.

This road is no super-highway; its narrowness and the tightness of its bends prevent the use of snowploughs for road clearing in winter, and thus it is usually closed to traffic for six months of the year, from mid-December to early June. The date of the opening of the pass is very important to anyone wishing to get into the high country surrounding it. Without the road the area becomes almost inaccessible and any trip into it during the winter months must be very carefully considered and planned. In 1961 the pass was opened during the last few days of May, actually in mid-week. Four of my friends and I immediately made plans for a trip at the weekend that would take us as far as possible into the mountains. We knew that at the level of the pass we would still encounter a great deal of snow, so we decided to take either skis or snowshoes, depending on individual preference.

The drive from Eugene towards the pass was along the road which follows the McKenzie River. The river is fast flowing and has many rapids along its course, so during much of the drive one is within sight of what the locals call “white water”. The first few miles are through cultivation along the valley bottom, but soon the trees close in and the road passes through great avenues of firs which virtually close off the sky from view. In the valley spring was already advancing into summer, but as we climbed towards its head we came upon patches of snow and within a short distance we were running between walls of snow.

The most popular point for leaving the road when going into the country lying to the northwest of the Sisters is Frog Camp. This is a small roadside camp site constructed by the U.S. Forest Service; in summer I always found it occupied by at least two or three camping holiday makers, but on this occasion the tent sites, the picnic tables, and the campfire hearths were still deep in snow. A well maintained trail leaves Frog Camp and climbs up through the forests for about five miles to Sunshine Shelter. This is a small open fronted log cabin at the lower end of a small hanging valley directly below the col between the North and Middle Sisters; it provides a suitable overnight camp for climbers tackling these peaks.

The trail from Frog Camp to Sunshine Shelter is easy enough to follow under summer conditions; a dusty track winds its way through the trees and undergrowth, and one has little need to search the tree trunks for the trail-marking blazes. But in the snow we found the situation very different since there was no way of distinguishing the line of the trail except by keeping a close look out for the blazes, and this in itself was made more difficult by the great depth of snow which brought the marks down below knee level instead of ten feet in the air as they appear in summer.

Three miles from Frog Camp a tongue of lava about a mile wide comes down through the forest from the main flows near the pass. This is the first real landmark along the trail and, as we were tiring of the long upward trudge beneath the trees, we were particularly anxious to reach this point. However, our progress was very slow and more than two hours passed before we saw the ridge of lava looming through the trees, perhaps fifty feet above our heads. We climbed up on to it and from here, uninterrupted by foliage, we had a magnificent view over the Sisters and across the valley to Mount Washington with its final tower of black rock sitting at the head of a fine symmetrical snow ridge. Although we had been on deep snow since leaving Frog Camp, very little of it could be seen from our vantage point, except on the lava flows and the peaks; the blanket of the forest was so complete that it completely hid the snow and our distant views to the north and west were essentially of forests in their delicate spring greenery.

Out on the lava flow we found all the inequalities nicely covered with snow and the surface in an ideal state for skiing. Tempted by this, our determination to go higher on the Middle Sister weakened and we surrendered ourselves to the pleasures of ski-ing in such pleasant surroundings.

Meanwhile the sky darkened imperceptibly, until a peal of distant thunder warned us of the approach of a storm. To the northwest great thunderheads had already developed and lightning flashes were soon playing around the ridge of Mount Washington. We raced downhill through the forests towards Frog Camp, our progress being made easier by following our uphill tracks. At every moment we expected the sky to open and subject us to a torrential downpour, but luck was with us and the storm held off while we made our rapid retreat towards the car. No sooner had we reached Frog Camp than the rain and hailstones struck us to the accompaniment of peals of thunder that reverberated around the peaks. The storm was so impressive that, before starting on our 80 mile drive back to Eugene, we drove to the summit of the pass so that we could have a grandstand view of the lightning dancing among the peaks.

Our view over the Sisters had confirmed our opinion that at least the Middle Sister would soon be in a suitable condition for a climb, so a fortnight later three friends and I set out for an attempt on the mountain. One of my companions, Peter, was a Dutchman whose only experience of climbing was on Table Mountain, South Africa. The other two were Americans; one, a New Englander, had done a lot of climbing in the White Mountains and the Appalachians, the other had lived most of his life within sight of the Cascades.

It was late on Saturday afternoon before we got away from Eugene, and already six o’clock when we arrived at Frog Camp. Much of the snow had gone from the lower part of the trail and we made good progress. However, the Sisters are almost on the forty-fourth parallel, and since Oregonians have not yet accepted the advantages of advancing clocks in summer, the sun was already setting as we climbed up on to the lava flow. Just at the moment when we got a clear view, the peaks were flushed in a pink glow as the sun sank behind the horizon.

But we had no time to admire the view, there was still nearly two miles of hard uphill to Sunshine Shelter, and darkness was coming on. After crossing the lava flow we had to descend into a shallow depression down which the White Branch flows. The stream was covered completely with snow and we had a few anxious moments expecting at any step to break through into the icy water. Fortunately the snow was already becoming firm under the influence of a keen frost, so we crossed the hollow without a discomforting soaking.

By now it was dark and we were in the forest again. The slope steepened and we groped our way uphill keeping our feet only with difficulty as the surface of the snow had by now become hardened almost into a sheet of ice. It was with relief that we emerged from the trees right into the entrance of the small alpine valley where the shelter is situated. There was a great deal of snow and the shelter was nearly buried; the open front was almost completely closed and we could only get in by dropping down into a dark hole between the snow and the eaves. The first one of us to do this landed with a splash; there was mud and water on the floor. However, at the far end of the shelter was a low platform raised from the floor about three or four inches and covered in fir branches to make a soft mattress for our sleeping bags.

After a quick meal which involved melting snow for the water supply, we climbed out of the shelter to have a look round before retiring for the night. The sky was crystal clear and the stars were shining as they can do only in the mountains. The moon was just climbing above the ridge that flanked the valley, and the peaks towered above us bathed in moonlight.

We slept comfortably on our mattress of fir branches in spite of the low temperature outside and it was with the usual reluctance that we dragged ourselves out of our sleeping-bags around 5.30 a.m. A quick glance out confirmed our confidence in the weather as there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. But the sun had not yet climbed above the Sisters and there was still a chill in the air that made the preparation of breakfast a most uncomfortable affair.

Before setting out from the shelter, we hoisted our rucksacks containing our remaining food on to the rafters, out of reach, so we hoped, of any bear that might pass by and be tempted by the smell of food to rifle them. We had been slow preparing breakfast and it was almost 6.45 a.m. before we got away. However, the valley was still in shadow and we were able to make good progress on the hard snow, along the valley floor and then up the steep slope into an area of rocky moraines, which were now deep in snow. As we emerged from the valley we came out of the shade into glaring sunlight and in next to no time we were shedding clothes trying to keep cool.

The normal route up the Middle Sister goes up the group of moraines that separates the Collier and Renfrew Glaciers, joins the north ridge of the Middle Sister a little way above the col that joins the Middle and North Sisters, and then follows the fairly easy ridge to the summit. We decided that we could make the climb more interesting by taking a route up the middle of the Renfrew Glacier which would strike the ridge of the Sister a little nearer the summit. From where we stood on the snow covered moraines we could see two great steps in the glacier that appeared as uninterrupted walls of ice perhaps 150 feet high; these we were sure would provide us with ample sport.

When we arrived at the foot of the first wall we were not disappointed; from a small terrace the ice rose in a concave curve, the steepest section being just below the crest. We formed two ropes of two and I set about the task of cutting steps. The surface was quite hard, although not black ice and each step required quite a number of cuts because of the steep angle. In several places the wall was cut by narrow fissures, but there were no signs of instability and it appeared that it would be some time before it collapsed into seracs. Almost a rope’s length out, and perhaps thirty feet from the crest, I found one of the small fissures packed with snow into which I could drive my axe up to its head. I made my belay here and called on my second to come up. He came up quickly and led through towards the crest. As he tackled the steepest part of the wall, just a few feet above me, he was silhouetted against the sky, ice chips sparkling in the sunlight as he hacked away. Then he pulled over the crest on to the relatively level glacier. I followed and the other two then came rapidly up the bucketlike steps that we had cut.

We had now been going over three hours without a stop and the step cutting up the wall had certainly taken its toll, so we made this an opportunity for a well earned rest. We were now well above the lower ridges and could see a very great distance; to the north we could pick out Mount St. Helens up in Washington State, to the south the gracefully shaped Diamond Peak at least eighty miles away, while the glacier fell away on the west towards the forest which rolled into the distance. Away on the horizon we thought we could see the top of the conically shaped Spencers Butte that stands just outside Eugene.

Continuing up the glacier we soon came to the second ice wall, which turned out to be a less formidable obstacle than the first. It was just as steep in the middle, but towards the edges it eased off. We chose the easier route up the edge of the glacier and soon found ourselves on the ridge looking across the col to the gendarme-crested ridge of the North Sister.

In a few places the snow had melted from the ridge exposing the fine volcanic ash into which we sank ankle deep. After climbing steadily up the ridge we came to a point, perhaps 300 feet below the summit, where it rose in a steep step. The rocks were covered in snow and to the left overhung the great eastern face of the mountain which falls away to the Hayden Glacier. We turned the step to the right, traversing on to the western face of the mountain where the slope was very steep, but the snow was just right for kicking steps.

This was our first high trip of the year and we had come up 10,000 feet from Eugene in less than twenty-four hours. Consequently we all found this final slope very tiring and I stopped about half way up for a rest, with the excuse of taking photographs. At last the slope eased off and there sticking out of the snow were the rocks which formed the summit. It had taken us four and a half hours from Sunshine Shelter and we were ready to relax and enjoy the view. We felt in a jubilant mood: surely ours must be the first ascent of the year. But on examining the summit register, which we discovered in a stout metal chest among the rocks, we found to our surprise that we’d been beaten by three days; another party had made the climb in mid-week.

Using the rocks to shield us from the cool wind, we lay back and ate our remaining food. By early June the atmosphere around the Oregon Cascades becomes very dry and this together with the powerful sun leaves one feeling constantly thirsty during outings in the mountains. We had each come prepared with about a quart of diluted lemon juice, but our thirst was insatiable and we resorted to filling our canteens with snow, which melted to provide a further supply of ice-cold liquid.

After spending more than an hour on the summit, enjoying the view and taking photographs, we set off on a course directly down the steep snow slopes of the western face which would cause us to strike Renfrew Glacier below any difficulties. Down much of this face we were able to glissade but at several points the angle was such as to make us stop and take a safer and more leisurely course. A considerable bergschrund had formed between the snow and the glacier, but we got across without much difficulty and once on the glacier were able to tear off again, glissading much of the way. Within two hours we were back at the shelter, 4000 feet below the summit.

The walk back to Frog Camp passed without incident except for our coming across a porcupine which was leisurely eating a meal of bark thirty feet up in the branches of a pine; he was a big fellow about two feet long. We didn’t have an opportunity to admire his defensive quills because, feeling secure in his lofty perch, he took little notice of us and carried on with his meal. On the last two miles of the trail the mosquitoes turned out in force to subject us to their usual treatment.

We arrived back at Frog Camp feeling very hot and tired, but fortunately we had taken the precaution the day before to leave a bottle of beer apiece in a nearby stream to keep cool ready for our return, an ideal ending to a perfect day.

This particular trip was neither the most exciting nor the most difficult that I undertook while in Oregon, but I think it typifies the kind of outing that can be made in an area where distances are great, huts are unknown, and shelters such as Sunshine are considered to be a great luxury.