The Land of the Swan

Of all the magical places in the North Cascades, a few particularly enchanting remote spots have escaped my attempts to visit them. Among these is a spear of mountains thrusting itself beyond the Eldorado massif and laying claim to the country that rises above the glacier waters of Thunder Creek. The region has no particular name, but it includes the Klawatti, Austera, Primus and Tricouni peaks. Mayhap, since glaciologist Dick Hubley originally named Klawatti Glacier by the Chinook name Kahloke, meaning swan, perhaps we can call this region the Land of the Swan, although admittedly that sounds a bit cheesy. To see this place with my own eyes, I needed to cross the divide beyond the slopes of Eldorado.

Who knows, maybe it would live up to the lofty expectations of its new name? On our hike to Eldorado Peak, it rained that misty kind of rain that hemmed and hawed between a released deluge on us to vanishing altogether and becoming sunny. By day's end, our progress had ground nearly to a stop as the weather pendulumed in the more unsavory direction, so instead of wandering around like drunks on a glacier, we pitched camp where we stood. Sleep, I've found, always holds more promise than stumbling around on a glacier in the fog. Morning rose with white clouds battering against the shores of gathered peaks. They ebbed and flowed in the valleys below, and we shuffled and lumbered gear to another camp before setting off with daypacks for Austera Peak.

After circling it, we skied full tilt onto the Klawatti Glacier, and for the first time, I put ski to snow in the "Land of the Swan". My excitement was soaring because I was in a new corner of the Cascades. Yes, the same mountains stared back at me, but they did so with different expressions. Some meaner and scarier. Others are more solitary and serene. In all cases, they are known better than before. From the summit of Austera Peak, we flipped our skis onto the snow, snapped them on and soared thousands of vertical feet down the Klawatti Glacier! Climb, ski and repeat until dark. Our third day was to be a round-up of the northern-most peaks in the "Land of the Swan".

First, we returned to the east ridge of Austera and danced around the massive icefall on questionable snow. As we neared the Primus-Tricouni saddle, Carl and I became distracted by a series of snow patches and couloirs that led down the southwest face of Tricouni. After some thought, I proposed a plan to Carl, "How about we go up the West Couloir of Tricouni, ski the southwest face, then climb back to the pass, ascend the East Ridge of Primus to the summit and ski down the south face of Primus?" Carl and I traversed rock and boulders to a bench of snow below the final climb to the summit atop the couloir. Of course, we went to the wrong summit!

Once recalibrated, we arrived at the 'actual summit' where we took our packs off, rested and took in the surrounding views. They have to be among the most beautiful of any in the Cascades. Although, it's rather convenient to think of those recent summits as most deserving of the label best. Carl and I traced turns toward our key points, which we had observed on our ascent. The simple thrill of seeing a line and drawing tracks may be a selfish indulgence, but it's the kind we're here to satisfy. Carl named the line Triceratops, a most fitting name for a worthy line. We returned to the pass between Primus and Austera, then climbed Primus Peak. A non-stop descent to the North Klawatti Glacier brought us back toward Austera.

From there, we returned to camp to find friends had arrived, adding Alexa Cathcart, Jack Kornfeld and Jeff Rich to our team. On our fourth day, we skied the icefall on the Klawatti Glacier, then explored a line on Klawatti Peak. Jeff and friends had spotted a tiny couloir the day before. Jeff suggested it was "...three ski lengths wide" and held enough room to ski. After we climbed to the summit of Klawatti, Jeff went first, then I followed. Each turn was separated by two or three breaths until I was down. Once everyone was corralled at the bottom, we whooped and hollered, and when we quieted, we all looked to Jeff and agreed that the couloir wasn't "...three ski lengths wide!"

Later I suggested Swan Song Couloir, a tip of the hat to the root meaning of the peak it descended from. Early morning on the fifth and final day came all too soon. While the remainder of the group chose to linger at camp, climb Eldorado and return to their vehicles, I decided to traverse above Moraine Lake, cross the divide and climb to the Taboo Glacier before returning to Roush Creek Basin for the descent back to the road. While my friends drank coffee, I found the terrain above Moraine Lake far more effective than any caffeine could be. Cornices gaped above me, and five-hundred-foot cliffs drooled hungrily below me. Either was enough encouragement to keep me moving.

As I slipped out from their gaze, I breathed a sigh of relief when I reached a 2,000 meters pass, just east of Forbidden Peak. Once over it, I laid in the heather and took a nap. I resolved to never take this route again, even on a cold spring morning. Eventually, I arrived within sight of my destination. Sadly, with the spring slush nearly a meter deep in places and the threat of hidden bergschrunds, I decided against continuing. No matter, failure is part of the adventure! After 1,200 meters of descent, I reached a fallen log across Cascade River, where I dipped my head into the frigid waters and sat on the rocks. The cold had cleared my thoughts. While my time in the "Land of the Swan" was brief, it was a time not measured by hours but by memories made and re-lived a thousandfold.