Columbia Icefield
(Twins, Stutfields)
2024 May 8 to 11
2024 May 8 to 11
A view from Twins Tower's summit down its steep snow arrête
Obviously, it's not from the start of this trip. That was two days earlier, at 3 am with headlamps in the parking lot at bottom of the Athabasca Glacier. (pitch black sans headlamps)
It's a look down Twins Tower's snow arête with North Twin on the right. The three glaciated swells that reach the skyline in a line that traverses the shot from left to right are the Stufields (they’re both in there), Mount Kitchener and Snow Dome. They bound the northeast edge of the Columbia Icefield and run roughly parallel the Icefields Parkway (highway #93). So if you’ve ever driven the #93 by the Discovery Center and wondered what the view’s like up top, it doesn't get much more "up top" than this. I'm on the fifth tallest peak in the Canadian Rockies and North Twin, on the right, is #3.
If poor weather shut the trip down a day early, it was every bit as good as it looks here while I climbed both Stutfields and all four Twins the two previous days. I didn’t ski anything on this trip that I could say was technically "difficult", though West Twin's 40 degree-ish descent comes close. The snow pack was supportive enough through any sections we boot packed, though only two of us tackled all four twins on our last full day up there. If we’d wanted more technical challenge, there was plenty. We didn't.
Not to say there’s no need for the skill and experience to handle challenging terrain and manage risk. Sections of the trip negotiate movement with man-gobbling, poorly-bridged crevasses lurking beneath and an accompanying assortment of real-life horror stories; ice- and serac fall, avalanches (and more horror stories), together with any of the more typical risks of any ski or multiday camping trip. On ice.
Now's probably a good time for the caveat: if you don’t have experience with crevassed glacier travel or catching or managing a crevasse fall; if you don’t have avalanche safety training or lack experience assessing snowpack stability and avalanche risk or lack experience with the gear; if you lack experience managing gear to keep yourself warm, hydrated, dry, sheltered and fed for days on end on an icefield, where weather changes can be brutal, sudden and unpredictable, then hire a guide. My first time up here was back in 2019 when I climbed & skied mounts Kitchener and Columbia with the ACC. Doug Latimer was our guide. I’d just completed a crevasse-rescue course with him the week before. He's a great guy. And a great guide. And he's got a book 1 out now.
(so if you're looking for references for him, that's one)
This section of seracs and crevasses has earned its notoriety with a history of accidents. I snapped this shot on an earlier trip. The snow pack and coverage were much leaner this time than shown here. This season (May 2024) was widely regarded as the leanest on record
On top of the crevasses and seracs, literally and figuratively, the route can risk exposure to rock and icefall from glaciers and rock faces towering overhead on both sides. This section's notoriety comes from a long history of accidents.
Which really is too bad, for two reasons.
First, it's gorgeous. For me, it’s one of the highlights of any trip onto this icefield. On our way in, there was a substantial serac collapse off Andromeda, right around daybreak. We'd just passed that section and our route was enough out of the way had we still been there (at least, that's what I tell myself). Yet the spectacle was incredible.
Second, while I can't nix all the risk up here, I think silly people stuff usually has more of a hand in mountain mishaps than mother nature throwing her weight around. There are exceptions, of course, but as that silly stuff goes away, the remaining risk, if there is any, is much more manageable. Experience suggests that I might generalize that statement to the sport.
We’re past the last icefall at the top of the Athabasca Glacier and into the vast expanse of the Columbia Icefield. Andromeda and Androlumbia in the background.
The first rays of dawn catch the snowpack, snapped from camp
Mount Columbia from camp
Hmm. One of the stoves was mine. I’d loaned it to them and turned in early the night before, after cooking a meal and boiling water with it. I’d been using it regularly (for nearly a decade), the last time just days before on the Bruins glacier. The other stove looked just about brand new. Which isn't a good thing.
Let’s slow it down a little here.
A working stove on an icefield is a big deal. Without a stove, there is NO WATER. You can’t survive.
So I looked over to where I’d last seen the stoves the night before and saw a mess of stove parts, utensils etc. in the snow.
Did these people actually just leave the stoves like this and then... off to bed??? Then panic: had they lost parts? damaged my stove? how much fuel had they burned?
I extricated my stove from the mess and gave it a quick check. It was all there. Then I fired it up. No problem.
Between the three of them, they couldn’t figure out how to light either of the two stoves. I owed it to my stove to call in its loan. I would boil water for them myself, if they liked. “No offense”, I’d offered. “Loads taken” was the response. I found the fuel bottle cap for the other stove in the snow and placed it with the rest of its parts, avoiding eye-contact when I mentioned it to minimize any further offense.
I covered some camp stove basics and before long they had the second stove running and settled in for breakfast. Nearing 8 am. When I'd been up and ready at 3 am. As we'd agreed.
So when the other stove's owner started making excuses for it, I nipped.
“How much experience does it have?”
At face value I was referring to his stove but they all knew what I meant.
The stove screens are thin, foldable aluminum sheets that wrap around the stove to nix the wind. Mine is crumpled, full of carbon, folded in places to cover holes from years of service. Perfectly functional. The other stove's screen, together with the rest of the stove and cooking gear, looked brand spanking new.
If their resentment was imagined before it was palpable now. By now, in one way or another, I'd managed to offend them all.
That was our first morning at camp.
Mount Alberta’s rugged and precipitous east face in the full force of the morning sun (9 am)
In spite of the bumpy start, snow and sky were near ideal throughout the day and would continue to be throughout the trip.
Friction in the crew (or, more accurately, between the rest of the crew and me) had calmed, perhaps in favor of the mesmerizing scenery and anticipation of some great skiing later in the day on our descent.
To look at this shot and on a day like this, why should there be any friction at all? Aren’t we all out for the same thing?
That's just it.
We're not all out for the same thing.
On that note, there's no small irony in the shot to the right. Less than a year before, and at about the same time time of day that I snapped this shot (9 am), a friend & I were just gaining the summit ridge of the peak in front of us.
Snapped nearly a year before from Mount Alberta's summit ridge (Devan Peterson in the shot). In spite of the wildfire smoke hampering our views this challenging and exciting scramble was easily a season highlight!
Mount Alberta is a tough haul! Sections are mid fifth-class (Japanese Route), maybe even a little tougher; long sections of choss; much of the route is face climbing, so being on either end of rockfall is a constant concern if anyone else is around. And there was: Brett Bilon and Chad Kutanar landed on Mount Alberta that same day. The views were terrible. It was one of the worst days of one of the worst years for wildfire smoke on record.
And yet, successfully handling whatever Mount Alberta threw our way — the choss; the steep, technically-demanding scrambling and downclimbing; tricky route-finding — made it one of the season’s big wins. Devan Peterson and I climbed together, but except for two rappels it was all unroped and solo. Brett & Chad summited the same day: we met them on their way in on our descent through the crossover pitch. We met again the next morning, talked shop, traded stories & ate together before heading out. We were all pretty stoked.
(I’m slow getting these TRs out. In case I don’t get one up for Mount Alberta: I’d put the tougher sections at 5.5/5.6 if you move right to avoid the “simul-climb” section Matt Lemke mentions in his TR, just above the crossover pitch. He was there the week before we were. Steven Song mentions this same section in his TR from 2017 . Both TRs absolutely superb, pics & descriptions of key sections of the route)
There had been no close calls. No sleeping for hours past an agreed start time. No screaming temper tantrums.
Back to the Icefield...
The first few meters up Stutfield’s east slope were just a little too stiff and crusty for the skins, even with crampons. We boot-packed a few meters of gully to gain this ledge. Then it was back in skis for the rest of the day, including both Stutfields all the way back to camp.
Getting back into the boards after a short section of boot-packing at the base of Stutfield's east face. The sun softened it enough for it to ski well on our way back out
photo credit: Chris Candela
Me, pausing on my way up Stutfield to take in the scene and set up my camera for the shot (see next...)
Views of North Twin and Twins Tower really open up on ascending Stutfield’s south slopes.
Ice reaching high up to the Twins Tower’s arête from the col was concerning: poorly bonded snow pack might not support our weight on ascent. Fortunately, we were able to ascend the next day without issue
Stutfield’s rounded summit is anticlimactic in comparison to views of North Twin and Twins Tower from Stutfield's south slopes. I was shocked (shocked!) to see that someone had actually marked Stutfield's summit with a Razzie Award, plunked right in the snow, as you can clearly see in the unaltered shot (left or above, depending on your screen size).
I snuck down Stutfield's shoulder for a quick peek off the north edge of the icefield for some nice views (sorry, no shots). On deciding it was too late in the day for Cromwell (grrr...) it was on to Stutfield 2 (Stutfield's east subsidiary) and then back to camp.
I left the group at Stutfield’s summit and crossed a plateau to another “peak” at the north edge of the icefield. Some great views, I put “peak” in quotes because prominence couldn’t have been more than a dozen meters. Yet my GPS has its elevation at 3438 m, a much bolder step into the 11K window than Cromwell! So I’ll christen it “Mount Rob” and claim its first ascent?
Haha. Kidding, of course. Prominence couldn’t even be a dozen meters. (so... “Rob's Shoulder”?)
The descent from Stutfield to its col with Stutfield E was the trip’s first real skiing. An easy, low angle descent, though the bergschrund & slots on Stutfield’s east face were substantial enough for me to traverse from the north shoulder most the way back to what would loosely qualify as a ridge.
I didn’t snap any shots of my line, nor anyone else’s. Snowpack was soft enough for an edge to grab but too hard for snapworthy tracks.
An easy, low angle ascent of Stutfield’s subsidiary opens up views of Mounts Kitchener and Athabasca to the east...
(from Stutfield East)
We arrived at North Twin's summit just in time for sunrise
“It’s 1 am. I’ll leave for the Twins at 4, whoever wants is welcome to join me.”
The 1 am start wasn't my idea. I’d proposed a 4 am start the night before. The crew countered: we would be moving by 1.
I didn't think it was a good idea.
A 1 am start would have had us negotiating a crevassed icefield ascent of Alberta's second highest peak in the dark and, if there were no incidents, on North Twin's summit with at least another hour before daybreak.
There had already been a few close calls. One of the crew punched through the ice on crossing Sunwapta Lake on our way in, followed by a near repeat from the same member. I met "resistance" (one of the trip's several screaming temper tantrums) on trying to set up a belay after seeing one of our group slip backward, out of control, while crossing a slot.
A ski crampon would have prevented the slip. I'd been suggesting them and we all had them, yet I was the only one using them at the time. We were roped up but at that point the rope had so much slack and with zero rope management, it was more decorative than instrumental.
We'd been lucky.
In my view, a 1 am start would mean another shot at the same play. The same kind of "stupid" as slamming my hand in the same door just to make sure it hurt.
Yet The Twins were why I was up here: other trips the prior two years had fallen through for personal injury and a repeat of yesterday’s late-start would likely put two or more of the Twins out of reach.
Fortunately, within a minute or two of my calling out I heard movement from their camp.
“Are we on?”
No answer.
I called out a few more times. Still no answer from any of them, other than the sound of more and more movement from their camp.
Frosty. But at least they were rising.
Long story short, we were moving shortly after 3.
6:03 am, up top Alberta’s second tallest peak with the first rays of the morning sun as they pour across the northeastern reaches of the Columbia Icefield; the promise of another full day, replete with dazzling vistas from dizzying heights…
(…and cheerful cameraderie?)
Hmm. "Cheerful cameraderie" is a stretch. With this otherwise perfect day, there was definitely some serious friction with this crew. A good thing? The expert Navajo weaver who, knowing that only the Gods can be perfect, sews a small mistake so as not to offend them?
Let's go with that.
Not my description. I wish it were! It’s Bill Corbett’s3 apt summary of this jaw-dropping scene, in your face and all at once, on descending North Twin's north ridge. Twins Tower’s steep, exposed snow arête and east face shine in morning sun.
North Twin's descent to Twins Tower, seen from the col
This section shares its title with another horror show and top pick from my personal “best-ever” horror flick list (hence this section title's quotes), a brilliant piece of work from the UK directed by Neil Marshall, 2005. I liked it so much that I bought a copy from Blockbuster just before they went under. Remember them? Fond memories of a bygone era. Anyway, if you haven’t seen it, maybe check it out. Truly exceptional. Start to finish.
It also refers to the descent of North Twin's north ridge to its col with Twins Tower.
And, sadly, this section's title also refers to the deteriorating state of our group (as I believe it did in Marshall's flick. Clever!).
So if you’re not interested in the drama or if you think I’m being too hard on this crew you might want to skip this section, just enjoy the shots.
The words belonged to the same member who had slipped in the Athabasca icefalls on our way in. Rather than struggling through the third person singular pronoun BS, let's do the woke thing and call this member "Jussie" (we'll assume he/him, though I'm not saying the crew member was or wasn't male 😊).
In my view, there was no question that his slip in the Athabasca icefalls on our way in had qualified as a near miss. He didn’t want to see it that way. None of them did.
And he’d just had another one. Up top North Twin, shortly after I snapped the sunrise summit shot. What started as another awkward, backward slp (his second this trip, and second near miss) became a full-on tumble towards the slot just behind and below him. My heart sank. He landed struggling, arms and legs sprawled against its mouth. He slipped further.
Several of this TR’s shots show the ice sheet reaching all the way up to North Twin’s summit. But how thick? Ten meters? Twenty? Twice that? Thick enough for the crevasse to form in the first place.
Not good.
Then he caught himself and the crisis was over. He’d won that coin toss as well. “Watch! There’s a slot here!” His face reddened as he fumbled the words, trying to salvage some semblance of being in control when he was anything but. He was red with embarassment when he should have been white with terror. I know I was.
Nor was I blameless. I’d already seen Jussie have trouble recognizing similar menace. I could have had his rope tight, yet prior attempts to anchor, set up a belay or pull the rope in tight, even suggesting ski crampons — you won’t believe this — had offended them all. This behaviour added to their risk, and mine. And it was completely unnecessary. Even rediculous. "I've never been so offended..." was the shreiking response that checked an earlier effort to set up a belay. I’d packed snow pickets, ice tools, screws and other gear up here to mitigate risk, just in case. Dead weight.
Jussie had just won another coin toss. It’s to his own detriment if he doesn’t see it that way and I don’t think he does. The writing on the wall offends him.
I hope he figures it out before a toss comes up bad.
Good luck, Jussie.
The ascents to West and South Twin were in great shape, I’d just seen them from North Twin and they looked like they would go fine, unroped. Apart from a possible concern about the snowpack’s bond with the visible ice up top the Twins Tower and the fact that tracks to the col showed that at least one other party had turned back (the arête itself was untracked), it looked steep but not unmanageably so.
Did I owe these people anything? I had loaned them my stove and started the stoves when they couldn't and had essentially pulled the plug on the trip. I bought & paid for fuel for crew who didn’t have any, dug them all out of bed (twice), skied down to recover one of their crampons after it went tumbling off into the dark on North Twin’s west face before daybreak.
What was I doing, clipped in to the back of the rope with these people? I didn’t want to move through the icefalls on the Athabasca glacier unroped. But that was two days ago and I could find my way out with another group, if necessary. Or, if push really came to shove, I could carefully descend the Athabasca myself (though I would advise strongly against it).
Now it felt a whole lot like they were balking at the sight of Twins Tower’s arête. Which, apart from a possible issue with the pack's bond up top, looked manageable enough. If the ice was problematic, I had what I needed with me.
So, back to Jussie's comment.
“Hurry up, I’m not in a good place here?”
My answer? I unclipped and glissaded past them all toward the col. For my first real regret of this trip: the glissade was a mistake.
I should have skied it.
photo credit: Chris Candela
Me, working my way up the arête. Steep & untouched, was the pack bonded well enough to the ice higher up to support movement?
(it was, & went without issue)
photo credit: Serena Winter
(from near) Ryan, Chris & me on the arête. I was surprised they followed, though I'm glad they did. I'd thought this crew was done at the col
There are just three peaks in Alberta over 12K feet. Two of them are in this shot (Mount Columbia is the “Top of Alberta” on the far right. North Twin, center frame, is #2 in Alberta & just 17m shorter).
My first real regret for this trip: leaving my boards up top North Twin. They're a powder ski: fat, lots of rocker. They shine in powder, though I find them a less manageable in steeper terrain. Yet the descents from North Twin and the Twins Tower to their col (all in this shot) weren't any steeper than what I would ski coming off West Twin later that day. Maybe it'll be the excuse for a return next season with something a little more all-mountain. I like this place.
After reascending North Twin and a quick ski descent to its col with South Twin, the crew conversation shifted from a 2 pm turnaround to wrapping it up and heading back to camp. It was 11 am. It was clear that at least two of the crew wanted to call it. I stayed silent and stepped back while they argued.
Not a peep from me. But there was absolutely 👉NO WAY👈 I was going to head back to camp. Jussie pointed out that I would be unroped.
“I’ll be fine. You guys go ahead, I’ll see you back at camp. If you’re not having fun there’s no point" etc. etc.
At the last minute, one other member decided to join me. The two of us started the easy, third-class ascent up the mixed rock and snow up South Twin’s north ridge.
After 100m or so of easy third class rock, snow & a little ice (but too lean this season to merit packing the skis) South Twin's north ridge levels out into a spectacular and unforgettable walk to its summit
Me, Mount Columbia in the background
...and Ryan (congrats man!)
Ryan nears West Twin's summit
From South Twin’s summit a quick “whence we came” traverse across the ridge and descent to our gear, then over to West Twin’s share of what could loosely qualify as a 3-way col with North and South Twin.
We moved climber’s right of West Twin’s east face, skirting a terrain trap and packed our skis up the face to a rock plateau at the ridge. Maybe just 30 to 40 meters of gain but it’s a face, not a ridge. Watch overhead hazard. The angle is well within the avy-nasty range (I’d put it just over 40 degrees) with a terrain trap and cornicing. We avoided by moving (climber’s) right, though what we climbed was softening. We didn’t want to linger.
We reached a shelf on the ridge, stashed our skis then climbed over the ridge and around a rock feature to the other face, then up the rest of the way to the summit (see the shot. Clearly, I didn’t need to explain “let’s not linger” to Ryan).
I snapped a shot of Ryan and Mount Columbia from West Twin’s summit (scroll down) at 1:39 pm. Our agreed turnaround time was 2 pm.
Four for four today. On time.
Nice!
We made our way back to our gear, skied the east face (for the trip’s steepest descent, maybe 40-degreeish), then across and out of the way of the terrain trap, nearing the col. Less favourable snowpack would significantly augment this section's avy stakes & risk.
Slower going across the large convex swell bounding the terrain trap: the pack had softened under the afternoon sun and we were unroped (bad. I know), I probed the section as we moved through. After that, clear sailing all the way back to camp. I caught a shot of Mount Columbia and the Columbia Glacier where it spills into the headwall lake that is the source of the Athabasca River. (Scroll down. Is there a name for this lake?) Otherwise the return to camp was routine.
Ryan takes in the spectacular view of Alberta's tallest peak. Our view from South Twin (heading out of the frame on the left) had more elevation, but the angle, light and framing maybe give this view a little more punch
Mount Columbia, its namesake Glacier and the southern headwaters / source of the Athabasca River
We arrived back at camp to find our weather window had collapsed. Our trip would be cut short by one day and it would be an early start the next morning. Yet the next day’s start was, for me, our our best yet: we were all fed, watered, packed up, geared up & moving by 4 am. All I had to do was get myself ready.
I’ll mention one more “incident”. Not serious this time, just entertaining. If expensive. To protect identity, we’ll ask our friend “Jussie” for help once again.
Same rules: he/him though the member may be male or female. This time, Jussie isn’t necessarily the same member as before.
On our way out, our arrival at the Athabasca’s upper icefall wanted a gear change involving effort that was, apparently, cause for Jussie’s frustration. The pack came off. Slam. Then the contents. Item by item. Out onto the ice. Wham. Bam. Thud.
Meanwhile, as slight as the incline was, it was enough. An item slid. Jussie threw an arm out for the catch. Then another item. Met with another arm.
Anger abruptly gave way to surpise. What was this??!
By now, the assortment of stuff sacks, bottles and gear surrounding Jussie’s pack clearly outnumbered and outmatched the availability of appendages. I was at least as surprised as our poor Jussie. Not so much with the suddenness of his predicament as the inevitability of its outcome. How could he NOT see it coming?
Was I alone in my assessment? I quickly glanced at the other crew members. I was not! They were equally curious, equally absorbed.
Then, all at once, surprise gave way to fear. An oddly entertaining, seizure-like dance of flailing arms and legs ensued as Jussie fought to stem the flow of his pack’s expensive contents down the ice.
Sadly, a significant portion of said content disappeared into the gaping maw, dark as Moonless Midnight, of the crevasse waiting just a few feet below.
$ Ouch. $