Big Four Mountain — Friday, Jun. 2, 2000

Four of us departed the little pull-off on the Mountain Loop Highway around 8:30 am prepared to climb Big Four Mountain via the Dry Creek route. One of the climbers had tried to summit last August with another group, only to be turned back by impending darkness. This year, we thought an earlier season attempt would allow more time, and perhaps more snow on which to approach the mountain, thereby avoiding grungy 4th class climbing in the cedars. We were right. And, we were wrong. The climber's path is sketchy at times, but generally well marked by orange survey flagging along the way. The river can be easily crossed on a large 2-foot diameter log. The devil's club is sprouting, but manageable. During our approach, we heard a huge ""BOOM"" like a thunderclap, and looking at the blue sky above, realized that this immense, adrenaline-pumping sound came from the mountain itself! Not 15 minutes later we heard a second, louder ""BOOM""! What we didn't know (and was told by the other party attempting the mountain that day who we met up with later) was that those two intense roars we heard were the first and second half of a huge cornice that broke off and thundered down the face and into a bergshrund right above the traverse! We told ourselves the ominous rumbles were on the other side of the peak, which is notorious for tumbling rock and snow, and pushed on. The snow started at about 2,000 feet elevation, and we enjoyed very warm temperatures, bright sun, and a gorgeous 40 to 45 degree snow finger that led directly to the upper glacier. No grunging around in the cedars for us! We traversed the upper glacier without incident (ignorant of the events that played out while we were in the forest), and reached the main snow couloir that is the bulk of the climb. It went downhill from there. The snow conditions were awesome, but the objective hazards were horrific! In order to enter the couloir, we had to cross this runnel in the snow. Just as I was ready to exit the runnel, my teammate shouted ""get out of the gully now!"" I quickly climbed out just in time to look back and see this basketball-sized snowball bounding down the luge-like track, in advance of a slide of snow debris. We looked up the couloir, and saw what appeared to be water running over a large exposed rock at the constriction in the route. ""That's not water, that's snow!"" When we got up close to this rock, the snow run-off had stopped, and we were preparing to ascend past the constriction. Just as the leader got close to the start of the gully, a snow slab cut loose above, unseen by us, and crashed down onto the rock, sending snowballs and snow debris cascading over the rock and missing two of my teammates by mere feet! I had enough and turned around to descend. My teammates quickly crossed the danger zone, went up a couple hundred feet more, and decided that the route that looked the safest was still very unstable and the objective hazards were unavoidable. My teammates also made a hasty retreat. Moral of the story: when Beckey's guide talks about rock slabs with sliding snow, pay heed! When you hear stuff coming down at 8:30 in the morning, it is probably not a good day to be in a gully. Our friend once again did not reach the summit that continues to haunt him. I have a saying I heard from an old climber ""I would rather regret not making a summit, than regret making the summit."" We enjoyed a sunny lunch by the roaring creek at the base of the climb, relating tales of fear, redemption, bad timing, and good decisions. The mountian will still be here, and so will we.