Snow Peak Mountaineering

9,453 Feet of Rock, Snow, and Ice

I plunged my ice ax deep into the snowy skin of the mountain and gave it a hard lateral tug to test the placement.

Not satisfactory. The ax was too loose in the snow. I pulled it out, stepped higher on the slippery slope, and stabbed again much harder. This time the purchase was perfect, and the ax didn't budge. It would make a reliable safety anchor. There was nothing remarkable about this little procedure. Like other mountaineers, I had performed it hundreds of times on countless peaks when the most important thing in the world was something secure to hold onto while I caught my breath. But on this clear, cold, dazzlingly beautiful day in late January, the mere sight of the ax struck me as slightly absurd.

CLIMBING OLD BALDY Just for the Fun of It

That's because the trusty alpine tool, which has guarded my life in the Rockies, High Sierras, Cascades, and Alps, was now being pressed into duty in a most unlikely place: a mountain in the heart of desert-dominated southern Arizona.

Think of a canoe in Death Valley. Snowshoes on Waikiki Beach. That's how you might logically think of an ice ax in a place that is best known for cacti and triple-digit temperatures.

Unless you've climbed Mount Wrightson in the depths of winter.

Here, on this 9,453-foot tower of rock, snow, and ice 35 miles south of Tucson, I was very grateful for a piece of equipment that could provide a secure anchor or arrest a sudden fall.

My climbing companions Tucsonans Jack Dykinga, Ed Severson, Bill Bendt, and Ed Compean appeared to be equally pleased to have their alpine gear along for this ascent in the snowy heights of the Sunbelt.

Each of us was outfitted with an assortment of equipment seemingly suited for Washington's Mount Rainier or Colorado's Never Summer Mountains: ice axes, instep crampons, waterproof mountain boots, high nylon leggings called gaiters, gloves, hats, and outerwear made of the latest miracle fabrics.

Depending on the weather, snow conditions, and climbing ability, a winter ascent of the steep summit block of Mount Wrightson is often possible without such paraphernalia.

But immediately after heavy snowstorms and freezing tem-peratures leave the mountain plastered with deep snow and decorated with yard-long icicles, mountaineering gear offers climbers a welcome measure of comfort and security.

An hour after daybreak, the five of us had arrived in Madera Canyon at the foot of Mount Wrightson, known to many as "Old Baldy" because of its treeless summit.

One glance at the summit, which soars 4,000 vertical feet above the trailhead at the end of the Madera Canyon Road, made us thankful we'd brought along something other than the shorts, T-shirts, and sneakers that would suffice only for a summer ascent of Wrightson.

The crampons, abbreviated versions of the full-size boot spikes used on glaciated peaks, have saved many a slip on Arizona snow mountains.

"We're talking MAJOR snow up there," Jack observed, as we laced up our mountain boots and shouldered our rucksacks.

Ed Severson, who had climbed the mountain a few weeks before the most recent big snow-storm, predicted that this day's climb would be "a whole different ball game."

He was right.

All of us were experienced mountaineers, and most of us had climbed this peak in every season by one or more of the several trails winding upward.

But the fresh snow, combined with the cloudless sky and bracing air, promised something extraordinary.

Our five-mile route on the Old Baldy Trail would take us from the oak wood-lands of Madera Canyon, known as one of the premier bird-watching areas in the na-tion, through forests of piñon pine and ju-niper to the ponderosa-pine-shaded glades of Josephine Saddle. We would climb past Bellows Spring, savor the views from Baldy Saddle, and then press on up increasingly steep and snowy slopes to the treeless windswept summit.

CLIMBING OLD BALDY

The lower two miles of the trail were free of snow, offering an opportunity to walk in an easy rhythm and work out the kinks from spending a week in the office without worrying about our footing. Bill, a veteran snow climber and ski racer, and I, who had learned mountaineering in the Colorado Rockies, talked as we walked about the natural good fortune that left southern Arizona spiked with this peak and several others high enough to draw the deep snow we liked. A few steps behind us, Jack and Ed Severson recalled their adventures on glacier-flanked Mount Rainier and agreed that, as desert mountains go, Wrightson was an alpinist's godsend. At Josephine Saddle, 2.2 miles from the trailhead, we paused for a drink of water and a moment of reflection about the need to treat this mountain with caution and respect even if it is a sunny, inviting place most of the year. A memorial plaque on the saddle names three Boy Scouts who froze to death on the peak after being caught by a sudden snowstorm in November, 1958. We moved on upward, each of us reminding himself in one way or another of an old climber's adage: the mountains don't care. We walked at a good clip and hit the snow line about a mile below Bellows Spring. When a pleasant breeze escalated to a brisk wind, we stopped, pulled off our rucksacks, and began rummaging for our high-country armor: insulating undergarments of several layers, nylon windshells, followed with gaiters, hats, and lightweight gloves. We passed the Bellows Spring catchment, which wasn't yet frozen solid, and trekked in ever-deeper snow to the pineand-fir-lined ridge of Baldy Saddle. Here, at an elevation of nearly 8,800 feet, icy clouds and high winds sometimes combine to coat pine needles and exposed rocks with a layer of granular ice resemblingthe work of a master cake decorator. Known as "rime," this natural icing can turn the entire mountainside into a glistening surreal landscape unimaginable in the cactus country a vertical mile below. The ice axes had been strapped to our rucksacks for most of the four-mile ascent to Baldy Saddle. A look up at the steep final mile of the trail encouraged us to put them to work on the snow and occasional patches of ice. Ed Severson, who had climbed the mountain many times in the winter months, took a moment to fasten instep crampons to his boots. The crampons, abbreviated versions of the full-size boot spikes used on glaciated peaks, have saved many a slip on Arizona snow mountains. Several of us had even found them useful on winter hikes over icy stretches of trail in the upper reaches of the Grand Canyon. Now, bristling with sharp points and swaddled in windproof, waterproof layers of space-age materials, we pushed off on the last mile to the summit. For much of the way, the ice axes served more as handy walking sticks than as crucial climbing implements. Then we started up the summit block, a turret of steep rock that's easily negotiated in spring, summer, and fall on a Grand Canyonesque trail literally carved out of the mountain wall. We took special care because several days of heavy snows had glazed over the wide reassuring trail and left the slope plastered beautifully white-but soberingly slippery. Bill led the way, stamping a narrow path in the snow. The rest of us followed precisely in his footsteps. Keeping our axes on the uphill side of the slope, where they could be plunged in quickly to stop a slip, we zigzagged up the mountain in a good shared cadence. Although the route wasn't steep enough to require the protection of a climbing rope, we seemed to be linked by something else: the sheer joy of the day. Each step higher revealed more expansive views: the vast San Rafael Valley, the distant Huachuca Mountains, and the unknown summits of Sonora, Mexico. Underfoot the snow was perfect: soft enough to form a secure step with each footfall, consolidated enough to pose little danger of sliding. I stopped on a steep switchback for a breather, sinking the ax in nearly to its pick for a "bombproof" anchor. Alone for a few moments, I admired a line of icicles hanging like stalactites from the shaded lip of an overhanging rock. "Love this desert," I said to myself as I yanked out the ax and stepped upslope. About halfway up the summit block, the terrain flattened. We traversed across the upper slopes of the mountain on the snowed-over trail to a series of switchbacks that would lead to the top. Ten minutes later, we were sitting on the summit, sharing a movable feast of sandwiches, cheeses, fruits, breads, and sweets. "Would anyone like some vitamins?" Ed Severson inquired as he passed around a bag of M&M's candy. For a while, we munched and gawked with little need to talk. The views from Mount Wrightson are among the best anywhere in the state. On this day, the normally superb vistas were near sublime, owing to the contrast of looking down from snowy heights onto hundreds of square miles of rolling high desert and grasslands. As we topped off lunch with handfuls of Ed's "vitamins," each of us savored aloud old mountain memories brought to mind by a day of snow slogging and ax play. Jack, Bill, and I recalled moments of exhilaration, and occasional high anxiety, on the slopes of 18,700-foot Pico de Orizaba in Mexico. Ed Severson relived the pleasureand pain of climbing 20,320-foot Mount McKinley in Alaska. Ed Compean told tales of his early climbing days in California's snowcapped Sierras.We lapsed, I'll admit, into a few minutes of traditional mountaineers' gear gab: a jargon-riddled discussion of the latest absolutely essential and, of course, monstrously priced equipment designed to aid us on our way to these lofty lunch spots. We didn't want to leave.Our hour on the summit had been a kind of secular communion, blessed by the reflection of dazzling sun off glistening snow. We shared a love of high white mountains. Today this one, an alpine island in a surrounding sea of desert, was our favorite in all the world.

CLIMBING OLD BALDY

We went down carefully, axes in hand and new memories in mind.

WHEN YOU GO

To reach Madera Canyon and Mount Wrightson from Tucson, drive 22 miles south on Interstate 19 to the Continental Exit. Then travel southeast 13 miles on a clearly marked paved route to the canyon. Parking space is available near the trailhead at the upper end of the canyon road. Hikers ascending Mount Wrightson in the winter should be equipped with warm clothing, mountain boots, appropriate climbing equipment, and most importantly the skills necessary for climbing a snow peak. Novices should be accompanied by an experienced hiker or guide and be prepared to turn back in the event of bad weather or icy conditions. For weather or general information, contact Nogales Ranger District Office, 2251 N. Grand Ave., Nogales, AZ 85621; (602) 281-2296.