With the family away, I hit the trail solo at 7 a.m. (at 6,800 feet) under beautiful skies. I stroll peacefully for a few hours before I run across other humans: a young couple emerging out of the scree field and heading back down the trail. I ask if they made the top. They say no.
While aiming for the saddle between Hyndman and Old Hyndman, they’d tacked too soon and taken a line up the younger Hyndman that led into rock walls. Pointing to a mangled thumb, the guy explains that their attempts to force a tricky line didn’t go well. Despite the setback, they’re in good spirits and wish me luck. Even his bloody, possibly-broken thumb is convalescing in the thumbs-up position, encouraging me to make the summit.
I plan to follow the loose consensus of the few trip reports I skimmed earlier in the week, which recommend heading all the way to the saddle and then following the ridgeline to the peak. Mangled Thumb Guy’s advice—“Do not turn up too soon”—only confirms my thinking.
The trek to the saddle is a slow slog, bouldering across a few false saddles and losing birds’-eye visibility in the rolls and dips of the rocky terrain. I pause to consider whether the better line here is closer to Hyndman or Old Hyndman. Probably the former.
Near the saddle ridge, I finally turn left toward Hyndman’s summit. I scramble parallel to the ridge for a while until I notice a small gap in the ridgeline that offers a clear view of the north side. From my research, I knew the north side was an exposed drop—but knowing is different from peeking into the abyss. Here’s a shot from my perch, with my back to the void.
From the north side, the summit of Hyndman looks more pointy and precarious than the peak from which the Grinch nearly disposes of the Hoos’ presents.
Enough of that. I back off the ridge to what feels like an overly safe distance and resume my parallel course toward the summit. Moments later, I hit what I’ll generously call an impasse. In reality, it’s an unexpected 10+ foot wall with plenty of handholds. I know this only in hindsight, from the photos. At the time, I am not remotely considering climbing it—solo, near the northern exposure, without seeing what’s on the other side.
So there’s really only one option, and it’s not appealing: I have to descend to ascend. Probably only a hundred vertical feet or so, but it’s hard to surrender any altitude. By now my tracks on the GPS look like dotted lines from a Family Circus cartoon. Tired and more open to the occasional thought of aborting, I decide it’s time simply to beeline for the summit.
Moments later, I come across a cairn—useless for its intended purpose, because there is no semblance of a trail here, but quite valuable to my spirits: Not only had other humans had walked here (though none yet on this day), other humans were saying I’m on the right, if invisible, path.
Riding that bit of inspiration, I make the final push to the summit. I think I could hear the Hoos singing as I reach the peak. Of all the beautiful views from that perch, none is more rewarding than that of the dusty olive ammunition can holding the summit log, which I promptly and proudly sign.
This view wasn’t bad either.
Following the obligatory rest, gawk, and documentation, it’s time to descend. No doubt about it this time, I am going straight down to the saddle valley. Halfway down I see a couple ascending towards me. These are the first humans I have seen since Mangled Thumb Guy. Likely another husband-and-wife team.
This fit-looking pair motors straight up from the saddle valley, somewhere in between where Mangled Thumb Guy and I chose to turn to the summit. When close enough, the guy and I pause to chat. Turns out the guy is both expert and helpful about Hyndman. I joke about my circuitous route, and the Helpful Expert promptly tells me I went the wrong way, even though “the books” describe that route. Best to just go straight up “the draw” to the summit, he explains. The Helpful Expert then asks me why I have “my sticks” out. I explain that I just pulled out my trekking poles out for the scree descent and had packed them away for everything up to that point. He repeats that I don’t need sticks.
Then he points at my daypack and asks me if I have “everything and the kitchen sink” with me. (He and his wife travel with no sticks and only a fanny pack holding a couple of liters of water.) I explain that I’m training for a Kilimanjaro climb in September and am packing the gear I would likely have in my daypack with me to test it out. Presuming that I hadn’t done any research before booking a two-week African climb, the Helpful Expert informs me that Kilimanjaro is a long trek, but that there’s no technical climbing involved. I nod.
Somehow the topic of Borah comes up, which I had climbed a couple of weeks before. When I mention the challenges of Chicken-Out Ridge—and I can pretty much see this part coming—he repeats the same bullshit tale I had read on some blogs before climbing Borah: “We hiked and hiked, and at some point we asked someone where Chicken-Out Ridge was, and they told us we had just crossed it without even knowing it!” (Read my Borah trip report if you’re not sure how that comment resonated. Also, because I’m petty like that, I’ll point out that the Helpful Expert didn’t actually do COR; he took only the “go around” route to south.)
At that point, his wife catches up and power-scrambles by. A moment later, our conversation is punctuated by a loud crash, as she picks the wrong rock for a foothold and sends a 100+ lb. boulder tumbling down the mountain—frighteningly easy to do on this scramble. Probably by design, the Helpful Expert is climbing on a different, parallel fall line from his wife—and, by luck and not design, I am well to the south. So no damage except to the psyche. I joke that I have a spork with me in case my leg gets trapped under a rock and I need to cut free. The Helpful Expert says nothing, presumably weighing his disgust that I might actually have a spork with me against his respect for saving the weight of a separate fork and spoon.
Quick word of advice about rock-fall on Hyndman: Trekking up Hyndman solo probably isn’t a great idea, because you could fairly easily twist an ankle or break a leg. But at least you don’t have to worry about a partner’s rock-fall. Best bet is to take the implicit advice I got from the Helpful Expert: go with a partner and stay out of each other’s fall line at all times.
After saying goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Helpful Expert (who were in fact helpful and perfectly nice), I head straight down “the draw” to the saddle valley. Once in the valley, the bouldering still doesn’t end, demanding another 30 minutes or so before you can finally get the hell off these rocks. Back on glorious dirt trail, you’ve got maybe 5 miles between you and a soak in the cold creek by the trailhead. Wahoo-Booray!
Travels With Burma Jones 