Archangel Ridge
Excerpted from “High Alaska ” by Jonathan Waterman

IN 1975, THIS ROUTE WAS CLIMBED ONCE; IT HAS NOT BEEN attempted since. It still awaits a second ascent, or a first alpine style ascent. The walk-in has potentially difficult stream crossings, bear encounters and trailbreaking. The overall difficulty of the route is accentuated because of its remote position and the long approach. The glacial approach to the ridge is exposed to a hanging glacier. which could be avoided. It is an elegant and surprisingly moderate climb, considering its direct line to the summit. Acclimatization can be facilitated by carrying a load up to the plateau on the easier Northwest Ridge.

While Gerry Roach was climbing Denali in 1963, he looked west and saw a ridge arcing straight to Foraker's summit, which became his dream climb; this took twelve years to come true. In the meantime. he climbed Mounts Lucania and Steele. Then, accompanied by his wife Barbara, he did Mounts Logan and Silverthrone.

On June 15, 1975, the Roaches left Wonder Lake with younger climbers Stewart Krebs, Dave Wright, Brad Johnson, and Charlie Campbell. They started horse packing through vast mosquito breeding grounds and made a contest out of how many mosquitoes they could kill in one swat. (Wright won easily, forty-eight to seventeen, on the back of Campbell 's head, nearly knocking his eyeballs out.) The team hit it off like a family during the two-week trip in. They agreed that if they couldn't all make the summit, no one would go. By the time they arrived at base camp, they had covered sixty miles and crossed sixteen rivers and creeks.

On the first two thousand feet of their route, as Wright was leading a steep, rotten thirty-foot ice pitch, the whole wall cracked and settled. They decided to climb at night, when the snow was more stable. That night they became soaked in a sudden violent storm and their tents were ripped.

 They experienced unusually warm and wet weather, which melted out their igloos and tent platforms, forcing them to sleep outside. Consequently, the snow-and-ice climbing conditions were abysmal until they got above 11,800 feet. It is also interesting to note that the narrow sections of the ridge, like the nearby Highway of Diamonds route, had no cornices.

 The crux of the climb was a knife-edge ridge between nine thousand and ten thousand feet, dubbed the Angel's Way. Roach, who went on to climb the highest summit on each of the seven continents, felt that this ridge was the most spectacular place he had ever been on in the mountains.

 While load-carrying on the Angel's Way, Campbell fell, somersaulting backward and ripping open the flesh on his arm with a crampon. The fixed line held him and he realized there was blood all over the snow. Wright sutured his arm.

The next day, they moved to their 11 ,800-foot high camp and built an igloo. The following two days of storm provided needed time for rest and acclimatization.

 On July 14, they wove their way up and around crevasses on the long snow slope. After twelve and one half hours, they all reached the summit and congratulated one another, particularly Barbara, the first woman to reach Foraker's summit.

 They descended their route in a day and basked in the meadows below the eleven-thousand-foot route. This tight-knit family felt that the trip was unique because of its wilderness setting.

They had been completely self-sufficient. unconnected by airplanes or radios to the rest of the world. At Slippery Creek Mine, thirty miles from Wonder Lake , however, they gratefully accepted dinner and a flight out from the miners.

THE AMERICAN ALPINE JOURNAL 1976
Article by Gerald Roach - The Archangel - Foraker's North Ridge

As we approached the pass, we in­stinctively speeded up. Soon we were running pell mell with giant strides across the scree until the entire peak came into view. It was fantastic. We were gazing up at the beautiful 11,000-foot-high north face of Mount Foraker . Right in the center of the face and rising directly from glacier to summit was the ridge we had come to climb. THERE IT WAS!!

 Our approach to this pass was almost as much fun as the climb itself. No climbing party had approached this cirque in 41 years, since 1934 when Charles Houston and party made the first ascent of Mount Foraker . They rode horses out from Wonder lake, packed loads up the Foraker Glacier under the north face and ascended the west ridge. At the beginning of 1975, Foraker had seen another six ascents, all by routes from the south or east and involving air support. The west and north flanks are well within McKinley National Park and regulations prohibiting the use of aircraft plus the distance from roadhead:. make access to these faces more difficult. We hired Berle Mercer, an excellent horse packer, to pack our sup­p plies and we hiked from Wonder lake to the snout of the Foraker Glacier in three days. On the fourth day we went four miles along the east side of the Herron Glacier then an additional three miles southeast into " Caribou Valley " (seen and named by the '34 party). By using horses to this point, we cut the load-humping distance to half what it would have been from the snout of the Foraker Glacier. Our approach hike had covered 60 miles and we had crossed 16 major creeks and rivers.

Finally alone with our pile of gear, we contemplated our situation. For our gamble with the horses to work, we had to cross the 6300.foot pass connecting Caribou Valley with the upper Foraker Glacier. What if the pass wouldn't go? We found the approach slopes to the pass beset by avalanches pouring in from both sides. This gave us pause until we spied a set of wolf tracks across the debris and over the pass. This supplied the courage we needed and soon our pile of gear was on a beautiful meadow just above the Foraker Glacier. Our " Wolf Pass " had worked and we fell rather smug as we sat on the tundra just three miles from the bottom of our north ridge. And what a ridge! It rose in one great unbroken sweep from the Foraker Glacier at 6300 feet to the 17,400-foot summit of Foraker with an average angle of 35 degrees. We had studied Washburn's aerial photo of this ridge long and hard, but the reality of sitting underneath it was over­powering.  

We took advantage of a spell of good weather to push the route up 2000 feet to a tiny platform for Camp I. This was the most dangerous part of the climb. The first 1000 feet was exposed to seracs above and the debris that we climbed over gave mute testimony to what could happen. On the slope above we found a thin layer of snow over hard ice. This slope was ever changing and always in bad condition and we dubbed it the "Target," Above the Target was a 30-foot rotten ice head. wall. While Dave was leading this pitch there was a sharp settling crack and we felt the whole wall move. We were in instant terror at this dis­play of the mountain's power. And so the pitch became known as the "Shock Wave Wall."  

Back in our Base Camp at the base of the route we felt rather sobered by this first day's climbing. Doubt was there. Obviously, we would have to climb at night. but since the route basked in the sun from two A.M. to ten P.M. this would only be a partial solution. Before we could make another move however, we were battered by a violent storm. The wind sprang from nowhere and whisked three airing sleeping bags out across the glacier. We recovered them only after a mad "keystone-cops" chase of 600 yards! The storm came on in earnest and camped on the bare glacial ice, we were very vulnerable. Two of our three tents went down, and all six of us ended up shivering in the third, which only survived because it bent down like the proverbial reed before the wind. The storm blew itself out in 24 hours, but it took over two days to recover from it. We had soaked sleeping bags, and ripped tents to contend with, and this wretched camp soon became an energy sink. As fast as we would laboriously chop a tent platform out of the ice, it would melt out. During this period our resolve to climb this route strengthened and doubts vanished. Nothing could be worse than our energy sink Base Camp! We escaped up the mountain.  

After a series of night maneuvers, we were safely established in Camp I above the danger zone. The climbing above Camp I was beautiful. A series of ridges, ramps and walls led up 1000 feet to the Apex, an important and spectacular point where the north ridge becomes well de­fined. Standing on the Apex, we had the feeling of being suspended from a skyhook. There were great voids on 3.9 sides! The only connection with reality and the rest of Mount Foraker was an incredibly sharp knife-­edged ridge. It curved and danced away from us, climbing gently. Up to this point we had traded the lead like gentlemen, but now everybody wanted to be up there on the "Angel's Way". After complicated negotiations, Dave, Stu and Brad went up to do the honors. It turned out to be more bard work than glory.  

We had been having good weather, and it was just plain hot. Our igloo at Camp I sagged and collapsed under the onslaught of the sun. We repaired it; it melted again: we gave up. Many nights were spent sleeping out, a practice followed even at High Camp. The snow condition along the beautiful Angel's Way was generally rotten. In the morning the sun would beat in on the left or east face and the steps on that side would shine blue from underneath. In the after­noon the other side would get the same treatment. We had to resort to more nighttime tactics before we were established safely in Camp II , nestled in a wide spot on the ridge just beyond the Angel's Way. Each time we traversed the Angel's Way was special. Its perfect form and spectacular selling more than compensated for the rotten snow.  

Camp II was at 10,000 feet; and with most of the major difficulties below us, there was a growing feeling that we could dispatch the upper part of the peak in short order. But we had been having perfect weather -it couldn't last. The barometer would drop more each day, and we resisted the temptation to bolt for the summit.  

Above Camp II the ridge continued curving upwards-more steeply now. Higher still it became more of an edge than a ridge, and we had several hundred feet of bare ice to contend with. Above in a slight basin at 11,800 feet, we found good igloo snow. At last! We left the tents at Camp II and moved up to stay. After several hours of labor, we had a magnificent igloo. It was over 8 feet high, and all six of us could stand up and walk around in it together.  

We had had 11 days of good weather since the Sink Camp storm, and we had climbed ourselves into a frazzle trying to keep up with it. Now poised in our igloo one day from the summit, the weather went out. This provided us with a much needed rest before our long push for the summit, still 5600 feet above us.  

Two days later it looked as if it might clear. We started with the theory that if there was any chance, we should start and go until it became obvious we should turn around. We went up 1000 feet to the be­ginning of the broken rock band, and it was obvious we should turn around. It was not summit weather. Back in the igloo the barometer kept going down, and we wondered. The next morning I rolled over in my sleeping bag and checked the barometer again. Down some more. It was now the lowest we had seen it on the trip. A shout filtered in from outside the igloo. "Hey, it's clear'" "Clear?"

"Clear'" McKinley danced in the sun as we moved up through the rocks and onto the vast upper slopes of the mountain. Up, up and up for ten hours and then we were capering on the flat summit of Foraker. We dashed from edge to edge, got the ropes all tangled up and overexposed several photos. We all congratulated Barb on being the first woman to climb Foraker and soaked up the incredible view.  

Back in the igloo it snowed about three feet in the next two days. We finally made a break for it and found a lot of changes in the route below. Twenty-five hours later we sank into the tundra and flowers of glacier meadows tired and happy. As we slogged out in the rain, the memories were already playing in my mind. It had been fine.  

Summary of Statistics: AREA: Alaska Range. NEW ROUTE: Mount Foraker, 17,400 feet, via the North Ridge; left Wonder Lake on June IS, 1975; reached the summit on July 14, 1975 (entire party).

PERSONNEL: Gerard and Barbara Roach, Brad Johnson, David Wright,        Stewart Krebs, Charles Campbell.

First Ski Descent of Mt. Foraker 's Sultana Ridge
Story and Photos by Tyson Bradley
February / March 96 • 57 Couloir

 Extreme skiers know the maxim “you fall, you die,” yet it’s a hollow phrase until it happens: a slide for life on bulletproof steeps with deadly exposure on the remote ridge of a massive peak. In June, 1995 Mount Foraker, 17,400 feet high, with a vertical rise of 11,000 feet, taught Julie Faure, John Montecucco, Jim Hopkins, and me why it is known as an invincible and deadly Alaskan mountain, why only one person in 38 summits, and why no one had ever before skied Sultana.

Anyone who has climbed Denali ’s “easy” West Buttress has seen the Sultana Ridge of Mount Foraker. A bold, semi–parabolic inverted ship’s prow, it ploughs an enticing trough through a sea of huge seracs, splitting avalanche–prone 10,000–foot faces on the north and east. One of the few sustained skiable lines on “ Denali ’s Wife,” Sultana was first climbed by Brian Okonek and partners in1979. His slides and insider beta on the route, combined with its aesthetic allure, and made Sultana the line of choice for our spring 1995 expedition. Skinning across the Kahiltna at 9 p.m. on May 28, our 100–pound sleds drag like lead anchors. However, we are gratified to finally be underway after a year of preparation for the first attempt to ski Foraker since Pierre Beguin nailed the Southeast Ridge in 1981. We are soon established at 6,800 feet, 300 feet from the jutting Southeast Ridge of Mount Crosson that creates a checkerboard of beguiling crevasses, our first crux. Tiptoeing on skis along a narrow ramp amidst treacherous blue rooms of doom, we gained the ridge, carried to 8,500 feet, and cached our loads as a menacing cloud bank rolled in. John and I don stiff, beefy Evolutions with Voile telemark bindings and test the barely supportable sun crust, while Julie and Jim elect to downclimb. Skis prove the better mode as John and I carve up an hourglass couloir and zip across the crevasses to camp. John and I toast our run with a nip of Courvoisier as the others start back across the dangerously slotted crux. Each of them break through to the waist so Julie, in the lead, begins crawling in order to better distribute her weight. Fifty feet later she realizes Jim is following afoot and thinking herself paranoid, she stands up. Immediately she punches through to her chest. Jim leans back to hold the fall, but moments later Julie plummets. A glacial nightmare, the rope cuts into a crack that runs back along the trail! Julie is 20 feet down, a deluge of snow and ice chunks collapsing upon her.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” Jim implores. “She’s in deep! We need help!”

As we reharness and uncoil the rope, Jim reports French obscenities rising from the abyss. Julie is okay — and mad as hell — we think. The rope goes slack, so, step by step, Jim backs up, keeping a tight line to his partner until she emerges, snow–covered, shell–shocked, and frightened half to death. On her own Julie has stemmed and ice climbed out, unscathed except for a cut above her eye from the barrage of ice chunks. This harrowing crevasse fall serves to reinforce Julie’s belief that alpine mountaineering is infinitely more dangerous than belayed rock climbing and it is a testament to her incredible personal drive that she is able to bounce back and hold her own on the expedition. Maintaining our nocturnal habits, the following night we de–camp and climb 4,400 feet amidst a magical light–and–cloud show in the Alaska Range . Sunset has barely faded from Denali ’s granite buttresses and steep snow gullies before the even brighter pink glow of predawn light bathes Foraker’s East Face. During the intervening wee hours, an amazing purple–orange lenticular has formed over Denali ’s windswept summit plateau. Layered like a four–story Martian spacecraft, its color is a rare and spectacular reward for our labors — but also a foreboding sign of high winds aloft.

John leads two 60° chimneys between the soft snow and loose, rotten rock. Calm and confident, he negotiates a series of steep steps crisscrossed by crevasses and buldging with seracs. As on our climb and first ski descent of the 14,000–foot Wickersham Wall the previous spring, John proves himself a masterful route finder. His level head and can–do attitude, backed by years of experience, make him seem invincible to us. We establish camp at 11,200 feet, weary, but delighted by the incomparable views. June 1 dawns clear, so John, Jim, and I shred soft, damp powder to retrieve our cache on the ridge. Kodak courage has the boys leaping off 15– foot wind drifts, high-fiving our great fortune. The following days, however, are beset by periodic whiteouts. Spades become the game of choice, between tantalizing sun breaks that allow only a frustrating bit of progress along the ridge. My tiny radio is the object of contentious adoration, hugely impacting our spirits with reports of rain or shine in Anchorage . The first break in the storm gives us three hours of climbing time, just long enough for John to trigger a soft slab avalanche on the lee side of the first steep section. John maintains a special respect for avalanches as his partner was caught in one near the summit of Illimani in Bolivia in 1992.

Nerves begin to fray and card games sour after another two days of whiteout. Mercifully, the sun breaks through at 2 p.m. on the 9th, and John leads a mile of airy ridge line, complicated by crevasses that align with our direction of travel. Then I take the lead, placing pickets to protect a steep traverse high above the upper Foraker Glacier. John unlocks the final crux by hugging a series of incredible seracs that tower 200 feet over our right shoulders. The relatively straightforward, but larger–than–life, Sultana Ridge looms ahead. Skinning almost the entire way, the improbable– looking access ridge succumbs to our determined efforts and we find a serac–protected high–camp niche at 12,000 feet. Above, the angle steepens abruptly, the crevasse danger melts away, and the skiing looks oh–so–enticing. The four of us gather outside after dinner, our bright attire radiating in the magenta glow of the midnight sun. So vibrant is their hue, the ever– present clouds on the access ridge seem lit from within. Basecamp Annie calls for high pressure and we can scarcely contain our pumped–up anticipation of the summit day to come. But it dawns like the inside of a ping–pong ball, with minimal visibility and wind. Annie offers the same positive forecast, reminding us that “patience is a virtue.” We mope and try in vain to snooze until 8 p.m. when the weather clears. Anxious to get on with it after 14 days of ferrying loads and waiting out weather, we opt, again, to climb at night. Winds are brisk for our 10:30 p.m. departure, but they hold steady at around 25 to 30 miles per hour as Jim (Mr. Lungs) sets an incredible pace. Excitement builds. Crampons bite well on mostly wind–consolidated snow. The angle steepens to 40°, then backs off to 30° again. In two short hours we reach 14,000 feet, where we all note a significant reduction in oxygen. Our pace slows by 50%. A lenticular is forming over Denali , but Foraker’s summit, seemingly only a stone’s throw away, remains clear. It’s inevitable. At 16,000 feet I glance toward Hunter and Huntington to see that they have suddenly disappeared into a cloud bank that has, in a matter of minutes, enveloped the entire range. Wind blasts increase dramatically and Julie is repeatedly blown off her feet. The Foraker Glacier, 11,000 feet below, is visible and, as we crest the Sultana Ridge, I can plainly see what appears to be the summit only a few hundred yards away. Moments later John  and Jim, who are barely 100 feet from me, are enveloped in cloud. I realize that they have their skis on and are preparing to descend, urging us to do the same. John looks a little shaky, saying, “I don’t feel good.”

“Altitude?” I ask.

“Yeah, I guess. And I haven’t really eaten for 5,000 feet.”

“We’ll see you at camp,” I shout through the screaming winds. Julie is terrified by the hurricane–force gusts — and so am I — but against better judgment, the power of the summit draws us on. We both feel an irresistible pull. We agree to continue without packs, since the skis are acting like sails in the brutally harsh gale, and soon reach the summit. False. A quarter mile off and 300 feet higher we spot the actual high point .

There is no further discussion. This is it for us. Fate has already been tempted more than enough, so we take the obligatory half–dozen documentary photos before hustling back to the packs. We clip into the picket until our telemark boots, with neoprene overboots, are secured in classic cable bindings, then begin hop turning down, leaving no tracks whatsoever. We agree to hit the deck and self arrest whenever powerful gusts hit, and must do so several times.

Opting for the conservative route, Jim and John have descended to 15,800 feet. John’s quiet, solid demeanor belies the acute mountain sickness he is suffering from, and the rest of us have failed to notice his dulled senses. Lulled by his oxygen–deprived brain, John initiates a hop turn just as wicked–strong blast of wind slams into him. Gaining speed immediately after landing back–first, he launches 30 to 50 feet off seracs and tumbles most of 2,000 feet before self–arresting, through sheer subconscious will, a foot above a huge ice cliff.

It takes Jim 30 minutes to reach him. He was completely aware that John could easily have slid off the Sultana Ridge onto the near–vertical, extremely broken North Face of Foraker and tears well up in his eyes as he hears the words, “I’m okay.”

Incredibly relieved, Jim slows his pace, gathering up the gear from John’s exploded backpack. However, John’s next words, “Who are you?” cause Jim to hasten toward him.

John’s bell has been severely rung, Jim realizes as he stops ten feet from the possibly corniced cliff and instructs John to crawl backward from it. Despite the excruciating pain of a broken ankle and bruised ribs, John claws his way back from the edge, and recovers from shock after accepting a down parka, fluids, and a little food through his cut and broken lips.

Julie bursts into tears of relief upon hearing the agonizing story when she and I rejoin our partners an hour later. We give John painkillers from the first aid kit, trying to find a dose strong enough to dull the pain, but not the  brain. In the stress of the moment, Jim and Julie each fumble a glove into the abyss, something that hasn’t occurred in 15 days of exposed climbing. Everyone is feeling the fatigue and tension.

We know a helicopter rescue may be necessary, given the five miles of undulating ridge separating us from the glacier, so, via CB, I raise Denali ’s 14,000–foot medical camp.

“There’s been an accident,” I stammer.

We’re advised to descend to high camp. Another Teradol eases the pain, and John, wearing one of my crampons (his having been lost in the fall) wiggles, crab walks, and slides as we drop 1,700 feet. Jim holds tension from behind and, with the other crampon and a ski, I act as the front brake. Ironically, the weather clears and, two hours later, a Chinook helicopter arrives. We are shocked by its entourage: a second Chinook, a smaller communications chopper, and a C-131 airplane. All this for a broken ankle and unknown head injuries! We feel sheepish. Kevin, the National Park Service rescue specialist, lowers a cable and he and I secure John into the red seat. He’s whisked away to Talkeetna.

Everything is suddenly quiet. There is a surrealistic calm and I feel as if I’m waking from a strange nightmare. Has this really happened? What did we do wrong? We’ve cost the taxpayers a lot of money and raised a hell of a ruckus. Why did we put ourselves in such danger? Will we ever ski big peaks again? Should anyone take such risks? Is it right?

But these questions have to wait. It’s been a 16–hour ordeal, we’ve gained 5,000 feet, made a first ski descent, and executed a rescue. We need rest, food, and rehydration.

Two months and a half a continent removed, the lessons learned seem more apparent. Skiing steep, exposed lines in remote wilderness on hard snow is like free soloing on rock: as the axiom goes,one slip and you can be killed. You had better stay well within your limits. Conditions should be just right, though on big mountains they never are. Lenticular clouds signify inhuman winds, when accidents become all too likely. John’s fall has been a frightening lesson from which we must learn as we continue to pursue our dreams. The future is still a gleaming, limitless, snowy–white horizon angled at 40°.