Mt. Anderson and The Three Magellan’s

In 1890, while on a pioneering climb of the Anderson Glacier, deep within Washington State's Olympic National Park, Private Harry Fischer postulated, "...man may never know how deep, the snow, and ice lay." Today, detached icy remnants remain in place of that once active glacier. Revealed beneath is an expanse of boulders and a terminal moraine lake, more than half a mile in length. One day in late April of last year, Jake Chartier, Carl Simpson and I planned to tackle Mt. Anderson's glaciers, walk in the steps of our forebearers for a few days and ski through this incredible landscape. Sixteen miles of green turned into muted shades of yellow and brown as we climbed to higher altitudes where the snow had recently receded.

In its wake was exposed an underbelly of salmonberries and ferns, broken detritus from larger conifers and slippery rocks. Somewhere in between the mountains and valleys, Jake shared a story from his youth. "There are folks like you," he said, "we called Magellans after the captain of the first ship to circumnavigate the globe. They find a better way than whoever is leading." It's a non-verbal way of suggesting the leader is incompetent. This is why Jake, after I forged my own route, parroted some bygone relative from his youth, spun together with a thick New York accent, a retort to me, "Look at him, he's effin' Magellan!"

We made camp for the night atop Anderson Pass, a short distance beyond a spot the O'Neil expedition named, Camp Siberia, for the cold winds that swept down from Mt. Anderson. As we lay down to sleep, hard snowfall knocked against our tents. On the next morning, we set off for the White Glacier and White Mountain's north face, a 40 to 50-degree wall of snow. While great for climbing, the skiing was in doubt, and that uncertainty increased as we reached the summit pyramid. But the final 30-foot snow finger seemed skiable. The descent turned out to be tenuous on steep, chattery ice, but we found the way from the White Glacier back to Anderson Pass. Since my objectives for the next days were on Mt.

Anderson, I convinced the others to move camp to a 5,200-foot moraine near the former Anderson Glacier and the newly formed Valkyrie Lake. The next day, we skirted Mount Anderson to tag the Hanging Glacier. After rounding the mountain, we climbed to a col where we descended to about 4,500 feet. At the glacier's base, we laid out on rocks whose snow was pushed back by the river water. Sunbathing like walruses, we were content. That evening, the alpenglow painted the steep northern slopes of Lacrosse. The cold followed as soon as the sun descended behind the mountains. One day later, I set off for the Linsley Glacier, breaking from my partners for a solo mission. It is a flat expanse of ice, nearly as wide as it is long (2,000 by 2,600 feet).

I chased cloud-shadows down perfect corn snow, delighting in the great skiing until it brought me to a small headwall. I descended to the rim of a couloir at 5,700 feet. The clouds lollygagged over peaks and I sat and lollygagged myself. The countless streams echoed in the deepness of Enchanted Valley; the sound muted by the endless tracks of forests. Named by Fred Cleator in 1928, he once said of Enchanted Valley, "Hundreds of small waterfalls... shoot, trickle, cascade, or otherwise pour over these cliffs into a scenic masterpiece...." To be alone in such a place was a thrill. Few if any people have stood on the rim of the Linsley Glacier, yet alone descended into it.

It was where Private Harry Fischer and his partner had attempted to go during their pioneering attempt at an ascent of Mt. Anderson in 1890. Thwarted by the difficulties they found on the cliffs below, they turned around. Hours later, I rejoined my partners at the base of the Eel Glacier. We went on to ascend the northwest face of Mount Anderson – 7,330 feet. This required crampons for the last thousand feet. The following icy descent through massive cliffs frayed our nerves, but somehow, we found a way down and returned to Flypaper Pass as cold shadows set in. The veneer of ice that we expected wasn't fully formed yet. With nothing between us and going, except transitioning for the descent, we set off. No photos. No stopping. Just down.

We skied the best turns of the trip to the shores of Valkyrie Lake. We filled up on water and toasted to another great day, like best of buds in a bar after a long day at work. On our last day, we followed bear tracks from Anderson Pass to the lower meadows. During a helter-skelter ski-blitz we followed a dangling thread of snow above a torrent until we were forced to shoulder the ski and walk the rest of the way. Back at our bikes, I attempted to tie my skis to the frame. This method had failed on the approach, but idiocy, in my case, is a recurring malady. Eventually I tied my skis to my pack. They jutted four feet overhead, and the wild ride down the road threatened to peel me from my bike.

Branches cut the sky above, and fallen trees laid in wait below. The last few miles of road sped away, and I thought of all the Olympic explorers, those of today and yesteryear. Like the peaks, they are headstrong and determined, humble and scrappy. While the mountains don't give anything easy, neither do those who come here wish them to be so. Private Harry Fischer confirmed this by saying, "Complaints from the members of our party were unheard of." Even when, he added, that it, "...outrivaled any ancient mode of torture." As Jake said, we may be Magellans, but I would submit that no matter who is captain, we always end up lost in the Olympics.