Snow Creek: 10,000 Vertical Feet in a Day

Snow Creek is a notorious mountaineering route on Mt. San Jacinto (10,804 feet) in southern California. It is notorious for a few reasons. First, it involves about 10,000 feet of elevation gain. Second, in big snow years, like this one, it provides around 6,000 vertical feet of continuous, moderately steep snow climbing. Third, the normal beginning to the route crosses land owned by the Desert Water Agency and can involve a show-stopping encounter with the vigilant DWA caretaker. There is, however, an alternate start that skirts around the one square mile (grid 33) owned by the DWA. A call to the DWA confirmed that (1) they would not grant passage through their sacred square, but (2) their property rights do not extend beyond it. Thus, by securing a San Jacinto Wilderness permit and avoiding the DWA property, one can ascend Snow Creek with a clean conscience.

My alarm sounded this morning at 1:30AM. By 2:00AM, I was driving toward Palm Springs, drinking strong coffee and listening to The Way of the World by Ron Suskind. Shortly after 4:00AM, seven of us were walking briskly toward Mt. San Jacinto under the light of the moon.
 
Accessing the snow tongue involved about 4,000 vertical feet of cross-country travel, which included boulder hopping, fording a creek in the dark, thrashing through thick brush, and ascending steep, loose dirt. Twice I fell flat on my back in the brush with my head angled downhill. And despite 10-year old boots, blisters formed under extra large band-aids on both heels. After a particularly nasty section – which combined thick brush, steep dirt, and loose rocks – we crested onto a ridge just above Snow Creek and beheld the snow tongue. It was roughly 9:00AM.
 

With water bottles full and crampons afoot, we began crunching up the snow at around 5,000 feet. The snow was hard and icy, as it would be for the duration of the ascent. After a few hundred vertical feet, we reached what is usually the crux of the route: the chockstone. In drier years, surmounting the massive boulder suspended between canyon walls requires a pitch of 5th class climbing or a circuitous 3rd-4th class traverse. But this time, the boulder was just a large lump under a thankfully thick blanket of snow.

The buried chockstone is just above the climbers.

Above the chockstone, the angle steepened to around 40 degrees and remained that way for 5,000+ vertical feet. For the next five hours, I zigzagged upward, trying to move efficiently and concentrate on breathing. Blistered heels required side-stepping the entire way. Lagging behind the others, I missed two of the three group rest stops in order to keep up.

Climbing into a cooling wind at around 8,300 feet. 

I really faded in the final 1,000 vertical feet and had to pause for several seconds at the end of every zig and zag. The zigzags became shorter and shorter as the chute narrowed and steepened near the top. From my private hell in the midst of the final chute, I watched enviously as one after another of my companions topped out far above and turned to holler encouraging words and woops. Complicating matters for me was a cough that worsened as I ascended, reducing my voice to a croak.

Getting steeper at around 10,000 feet.

Eventually, I reached the rocky headwall at the top of the chute. There I paused to watch a companion scramble over intermittent rocks up and left of me. Another companion yelled down that I should try the steeper section to the right leading directly to the summit. Though exhausted, I followed his suggestion. Traversing a few feet to the right, I ascended 50+ degree snow for roughly 30 vertical feet to some steep rocks. Surmounting this final ten feet of third class rock in my crampons was the hardest climbing of the day. It seemed like a fitting end to a marathon climb. Amid clicking cameras and helpful suggestions about dry-tooling, I grunted, lunged memorably, hauled myself over, and walked the final few feet to the summit. The time was roughly 3:40. Thinking it was much later, I was pleasantly surprised. It took me 11.5 hours to ascend the 10,000 vertical feet.

That's me climbing the final steep pitch directly to the summit.

Settling down for a much-needed break to hydrate, eat, and take Ibuprofen, I was called urgently for a group summit shot. That's when I realized there would be no much-needed break, because some of the others had been waiting in the freezing wind for nearly an hour.

One great thing about Mt. San Jacinto is the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway that runs from the desert floor to 8,400 feet. Thanks to this, all we had to do was descend 2,400 feet over roughly three miles to the tram station. I was anticipating an easy, enjoyable descent, during which time we would reminisce about the climb and chat amiably. But this was not to be. My left big toe pulsed painfully with every step. In order to alleviate the pain, I decided to remove my crampons, which the others had done earlier. Due to a complicated strap system that was further complicated by frozen buckles, this took ten minutes. During this time, I fell far behind the others. Wandering alone for a while in a world of pain and exhaustion, I came upon one of my companions, who had run back to find me. It's a good thing he did, for although I had a map and compass and was following a boot path in the snow, I wasn't familiar with the route to the tram station. His pleasant banter also lifted my sagging morale.

2.5 miserable hours after leaving the summit, I arrived at the tram station. There I confronted the last obstacle: the paved, winding walkway that gradually ascends to the station. While people laughed and ran by in the spring of their youth, I inched upward with the slow, agonizing steps of a centenarian, pausing more than once to rest. That said, it is amazing what thirty minutes of sitting, 400 milligrams of Ibuprofen, a bottle of caffeinated soda, and a rapid, effortless descent of several thousand vertical feet can do to one's spirits.

After being entertained by upbeat flamenco music on the tram's airwaves while admiring massive canyon walls, we landed at the lower tram station, but not before being informed that the music we just heard was available for purchase at the gift shop. From the tram station, taxis took us back to our cars, where we bid farewell as night fell. At 10:00PM, 20 hours after leaving, I was home again.

Baldy Bowl

I told my wife I could be back in the OC by around noon. Thus it was that my alarm sounded at 3:00 this morning. By 5:15 AM, I was walking toward the ski hut in pitch black, guided by my headlamp. Several other hikers started up a minute later, quickening my pace.

More than half of the way to the ski hut was on snow, which was hard and icy. Reaching the ski hut shortly after dawn, I put on my helmet, swapped trekking poles for an ice axe, and strapped on crampons. Anticipating hard, moderately steep snow, I brought my old steel crampons instead of my new, lighter aluminum crampons. Last week on Ontario Peak, the aluminum crampons performed poorly on icy, 40+ degree snow.

Looking up at my route.

Just as the sunlight was illuminating the crest of the bowl, I began crunching upward. It was immediately apparent how much more traction is provided by the steel crampons. My route zigzagged up to a chute terminating near the highpoint of the bowl. After a golfball-sized rock careened off my boot, I kept a wary eye on the cliffs above and forced a steady pace.

Looking down at the route behind my right shoulder.

Above the bowl, and especially on the summit, the wind was strong, relentless, and cold. Five minutes of stumbling around on the summit was followed by a hasty retreat to a warm patch of scree out of the wind. I checked the time: 8:55AM. There I unstrapped crampons and prepared for glissading.

Ontario Peak

The sun had yet to soften the snow, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect when I sat down and let myself slide. I glissaded for over 1000 vertical feet and learned a few things about glissading on 30-40 degree, hard, icy snow. First, it is strenuous. I had to dig the ice axe spike in forcefully to control the speed and had to flop over several times to self-arrest when the acceleration became worrying. Second, it decreases the lifespan of non-metallic equipment that is in constant contact with the snow. The bottoms of my technical wind/rain pants and backpack got severely scuffed. Third, it is painful. Impacting an immovable chunk of ice with ones butt or passing over a large, solid posthole at high speed hurts.

The descent from the ski hut was uneventful. In fact, it was so uneventful that I risked making it eventful. At around 7200 feet, I crossed a snow-filled couloir that dropped 800 vertical feet to the hairpin turn in the road. I could see the uppermost 300 feet of the couloir and the hairpin, but nothing in between. It could be a good shortcut. It could also funnel into a cliff or be filled with brush. I couldn't resist.

The shortcut couloir turned out to be a great decision. With the exception of 100 vertical feet of rock/scree/brush in the middle (including one spiky plant into which I threw my hand to catch a fall), the couloir was filled with delightfully consolidated snow and deposited me at the hairpin turn.

The shortcut couloir heading up to the right.

The numbers: ~4000 vertical feet, 5.5 hours round trip.

Ollestad Memorial Route on Ontario Peak

After climbing the right branch of "Ollestad Canyon" on Ontario Peak last week, Norman Ollestad remarked that the plane crashed in the left branch. This revelation, coupled with fantastic local snow conditions, compelled three of us to head up again five days later.

The Ollestad Memorial Route on Ontario Peak.  Photo by Miguel Forjan (March 5, 2010).

If the buckthorn that complicates access to Ollestad Canyon had eyes, it would have seen three headlamps approaching in the pre-dawn hours of Wednesday, March 17. Those headlamps were strapped snugly around the heads of Dave Gillanders, Norma Ryan, and Sam Page (that's me). Inside two of those heads swirled memories of battling the buckthorn five days prior, along with the secret knowledge, won by trial and error, of how to avoid most of it.

After about two hours on loose scree (which involved ascending, traversing, descending, and more ascending) and a manageable amount of thrashing through brush, we plopped down for a rest. At this point, roughly 5800 feet, the slick, hard snow was unavoidable, so donning crampons seemed sensible.
 

 
While Norma and I were fiddling with our crampons, Dave unexpectedly announced, "I'm bailing." Dave had injured his calf on our climb two weeks ago, strained it further on our climb last week, couldn't resist coming on this climb, and was consequently suffering. After a prolonged silence, during which time I quietly contemplated how this news would impact my immediate future, a discussion ensued about the logistics of Dave's solo descent. The main points of discussion were loose scree (especially the descending, traversing, ascending, and descending thereof), Dave's civilian shoes and clothing (which were in Norma's car a mile east of the trailhead), and Dave's car (which was parked miles west of the trailhead). I offered Dave the key to my car, which was parked at the trailhead (though it's not really a trailhead, because there is no trail). Dave paused for a few moments and looked pensive. Then he exclaimed, "Fu(;k it", and all was well with the world again.

Were it not for Dave screaming words that rhyme with "shuck" and "fit" every fifteen minutes for the rest of the day, I would have blithely forgotten about his calf injury. Even so, it was easy to forget about Dave's persistent agony, because immediately after each profanity-laced outburst, he apologized so profusely that it felt as if we, not him, were the ones suffering. But enough about Dave's young cow . . .

With crampons under foot, we climbed hard, icy, 30-40 degree snow for about 800 vertical feet to the base of the central buttress that divides the left and right branches of Ollestad Canyon. During this stretch, my left crampon repeatedly loosened, especially when it was on the downhill foot. I stopped three times to tighten and re-adjust the crampon to no avail and began worrying about how it would fare on the anticipated 50 degree terrain above.

From the central buttress, we ascended the wide couloir on the left for another 800 vertical feet of hard, icy, 40 degree snow.

During this stretch, my heart raced as I panned around for signs of the plane crash, thinking it was nearby. About halfway up, a rock outcropping on the right caught my eye. It seemed to resemble aerial footage I had seen of the crash site. In a fit of enthusiasm, I began literally running up the slope, until it occurred to me that such shenanigans could themselves produce an accident. Gazing at snowy crags and gnarled trees, I imagined the young, battered Norman Ollestad picking his way down this very slope, with the pilot and his father dead above, and Sandra somewhere below after she slipped and plummeted out of sight. But alas, I could see no signs of the plane crash, and the reality of the long, icy slope reasserted itself.

Video of the left branch of "Ollestad Canyon".

At its top, the wide couloir narrowed into a finger of snow which extended 1000 vertical feet to lower-angled ground below the summit. The climbing in this long, final chute was the most exhilarating of the day. The chute became progressively narrower and icier, and eventually steepened to around 50 degrees. In the steepest, iciest section, I was no longer able to side-step and was forced to front-point. Here my aluminum crampons exhibited another disconcerting weakness: they tended to slide out from under me when I front-pointed. Norma had her own difficulties in this section, as she was unable to plunge the shaft of her ice axe through the ice for secure self-belays. An unarrested fall in this section could have led to a slide of over 2600 vertical feet.

Norma in the crux section.

Exiting from the shadows of the chute, we were struck by the hot rays of the sun, which made for a slow, sweaty plod to the summit.

After lounging around on top for close to an hour, during which time Norma had a rum and Coke (it was St. Patrick's Day after all), we began a series of glissades all the way down to Icehouse Canyon. I was pleased to descend the 500 vertical feet from Sugarloaf Saddle to Falling Rock Canyon in one continuous slide that took no more than 30 seconds. The bottom few hundred feet of Falling Rock Canyon had melted out considerably in the last five days, including several stretches of hazardous undermined snow.

All in all, we ascended about 4400 vertical feet, including 3000 vertical feet of continuous snow climbing. The ascent took 6 hours and the descent 2.5 hours. Now, compare all that with Baldy Bowl. Climbing Baldy Bowl entails under 4000 vertical feet of elevation gain, with only about 1800 vertical feet of continuous snow climbing from the ski hut. That said, whereas our route on Ontario Peak is bounded by trees, Baldy Bowl is mostly devoid of trees, which lends it more of an alpine, big mountain feel. And, of course, Baldy Bowl has something else going for it: a friendly road and trail leads from the parking lot to its base. But for those of us who prefer to get off the beaten path, opportunities still abound.

The Ollestad Memorial Route (yellow) shown on a GoogleEarth image.

Crazy for Ontario Peak (Ollestad Canyon)

Since reading Crazy for the Storm this past fall, I have wanted to climb the drainage on Ontario Peak that I think was the site of the storied plane crash. After surviving the crash, Norman Ollestad was forced to make a harrowing descent of the steep, icy drainage down which the only other survivor plummeted 2000 feet to her death. A recent photo of the snow-filled drainage rekindled my enthusiasm for the climb.

Our route on Ontario Peak.  Photo by Miguel Forjan (March 5, 2010).

Ontario Peak (8693 feet) is located in the San Gabriel Mountains of southern California, not far from the popular Mt. San Antonio (a.k.a. Mt. Baldy). The drainage I am talking about extends for over 3000 vertical feet on the northwest side of Ontario Peak between Cherry Canyon and Kerkhoff Canyon. I have never seen this drainage named on any map, so I'll tentatively call it Ollestad Canyon. To complicate matters further, a large rock buttress divides the canyon into two main branches that I will (again, tentatively) call the left and right branches of Ollestad Canyon.

The fact that I could find no information about climbing Ollestad Canyon made it more appealing. Another interesting fact is that access to the bottom of the canyon is blocked by private property and dense brush. I overcame the private property obstacle by asking for and receiving permission from the owners to cross their property. The owner's remarks about practically impenetrable buckthorn did not discourage me. I would just have to see that for myself. Patrick Moran was similarly intrigued, as was Dave Gillanders, who could not pass up the opportunity even though he was nursing an injury sustained on our last outing.

So it was that at 4:15AM this past Friday (March 12), I was driving toward the San Gabriel Mountains on roads I have come to know so well. After missing an exit and spending about ten minutes backtracking, I continued on my way asking introspective questions like, "Why am I such an idiot?"

At around 6:00AM, the three of us set off from a parking lot near Chapman Ranch. Within one minute we were in dense brush and retracing our steps. It was a small taste of what was to come. In order to preserve the pioneering spirit and adventurous froth of uncertainty involved in the approach to Ollestad Canyon, I will provide no specific details. But I will offer this photo of the approach, which should provide a vivid sense of what can be expected:

The approach to Ollestad Canyon.

After an approach of about two hours – an approach which entailed optimistically following game trails to dead-ends in thick brush, turning around, yelling "how is it over there?", scrambling up crumbly rock while thrashing through branches, cursing, turning around again, yelling "how does it look?", bloodletting in the buckthorn, slipping suddenly on slick roots and falling violently onto the same, cursing more loudly and creatively, yelling "hey, where are you guys?", flopping sideways on loose talus and sliding painfully downhill – we arrived at the bottom of Ollestad Canyon.
 

  A jubilant Patrick after the worst of the bushwacking.

 
After a few hundred vertical feet of scree, we found ourselves on deep, consolidated snow. For the next 1200 vertical feet, we climbed 35-40 degree snow to the toe of the buttress dividing the left and right branches. Just below the rocks we swapped trekking poles for ice axes and strapped on crampons. A reminder to don helmets came in the form of a softball-sized rock that whizzed by Patrick at around 100 mph.

Looking up at the central buttress.  We went right.

While Dave and Patrick started up the right branch, which had been polished to a glassy sheen by an avalanche, I struggled with an annoying problem. One of the fingers of insulation in my glove had become inside out. Consequently, I could not get my glove on. For ten increasingly irritating minutes, I tried to force the hidden finger of insulation back into position, but couldn't. Desperate, I pulled the entire insulation liner out to have a look. Quickly realizing that this wouldn't help, I began stuffing the mass back into the outer shell of the glove. Of course, now I couldn't get any of the fingers of insulation back into their respective slots. A brief but vigorous temper tantrum ensued in which gloves were hurled at the ground and curses were shouted. Recalling that I had packed extra gloves, I regained composure and began catching up to Dave and Patrick.

The avalanche path just right of the central buttress.

From the bottom of the buttress, we climbed unconsolidated, 40-45 degree snow for about 800 vertical feet until the right branch forked into two chutes.

While Patrick veered left, Dave and I climbed the narrow chute on the right which was bound intermittently by rock walls. We climbed that chute, which steepened to around 50 degrees, for about 1000 vertical feet to the ridge crest.

The beginning of the final chute.

Dave on the final chute.

Dave topping out on the final chute.

The ridge crest was then followed for nearly half a mile to the summit of Ontario Peak. It took us seven hours to reach the summit from the parking lot. Patrick, who had taken a more direct line, had been waiting on the summit for an hour.

Patrick on the summit.

From the summit we descended the Sugarloaf Ridge route, availing ourselves of the many glissading opportunities. The snow was in perfect condition all the way down to the bottom of Falling Rock Canyon. Our descent took two hours. With the exception of a desperate and humiliating pee in the parking lot of a random condominium complex off of route 5, my drive home was uneventful.

Ollestad Canyon must be one of the best snow climbs in the San Gabriel Mountains. The climb involves over 3000 vertical feet of continuous snow climbing at a steadily increasing angle from 35 to 50 degrees. After adding in the approach and ridge traverse, the total elevation gain from car to summit is about 4500 vertical feet. And though the approach to the canyon is relatively challenging, it has the merit of ensuring solitude.

Satellite image by Google.

Telegraph Peak, South Couloir

Telegraph Peak (8985 feet) is a striking peak, especially when snow-covered, in the San Gabriel Mountains of southern California. Having never climbed it, I was inspired by a recent photo of a big couloir on its southern aspect.

The South Couloir is the big one in the photo's center.  Telegraph Wash is on the right.  [Photo by Patrick Moran]

Though the couloir has probably been climbed and/or skied, I could find no information about it. At around 7:00 AM yesterday (Thursday, March 4), Dave Gillanders, Patrick Moran, Norma Ryan, and I gazed up at it from Icehouse Canyon.

The South Couloir as seen from Icehouse Canyon.

Our first problem was finding the path of least resistance through the jungle of Manzanita and Buckthorn at the bottom of the couloir. After a small amount of thrashing (just enough to realize that this route would be awful in non-winter conditions), we followed a finger of snow on the right for a few hundred feet until it opened into the broad couloir. From there, the couloir reared up for over 2000 vertical feet at a 30 to perhaps 40 degree angle. Since the snow was hard and somewhat icy, we donned crampons, ice axes, and helmets early. Two additional reasons for helmets were the loose rocks far above and the constant stream of rime ice tinkling and careening down the slope.
 

Dave and Patrick near the bottom of the couloir.

 
The snow conditions were more or less perfect. After a long, continuous snow climb, we emerged happily (except for David, who tweaked his foot) onto the fairly narrow summit ridge.
 

 

Norma and Dave nearing the top of the couloir.

 
 

 

Norma on the summit ridge above the couloir.  Mt. San Gorgonio is on the left and Mt. San Jacinto is on the right.

 

 

The video above was taken from the top of the couloir.

By 11:00 AM, we were being whipped by chilly winds on the summit of Telegraph Peak.

Patrick, Norma, and Dave on the summit.

View of Mt. Baldy.

In keeping with my preference for loops involving descents with a margin of uncertainty, we headed down to the corniced saddle below Thunder Mountain. From there, we descended Cedar Canyon on perfect, knee-nurturing snow for over one mile until the snow petered out revealing loose rock and unaccommodating brush. After some tipping and thrashing, we stumbled onto the Chapman Trail and zigzagged back to the parking lot.

The numbers: 4000 feet of elevation gain, 8 hours round trip.

The Galena Gauntlet

The Galena Gauntlet is in red.  Galena Peak is on the left.

On February 15, Miguel Forjan, Jeff Scofield, and I had an exhilarating outing in the San Bernardino Mountains. We climbed a couloir for nearly 2000 vertical feet on the north side of Yucaipa Ridge, and then traversed the south side to Galena Peak. We were on snow the entire day.

The idea to climb the route was hatched two weeks prior when, from the CPR route on Dobbs Peak, I spotted a continuous couloir snaking from Mill Creek Canyon to Yucaipa Ridge. Intrigued, I suggested to a few Facebook friends that we give it a shot.

At 5:45 AM on Monday, I picked up Miguel at a gas station in Riverside. Though I had never met Miguel in person, his impressive mountaineering reputation preceded him. Jeff, who I had climbed with once before, greeted us bare-chested at the wintry Vivian Creek parking lot at 6:30 AM. Somehow that seemed like an auspicious start. A little before 7:00 AM, we began crunching our way over consolidated snow up Mill Creek Canyon. Roughly two miles later, our intended couloir came into view. Much pointing, squinting, and nodding ensued.

The Galena Gauntlet as seen from Mill Creek Canyon.

As we approached the couloir, we lost sight of it in the woods and Miguel and I disagreed about which way to go. Having studied photos and satellite imagery, I insisted the couloir was to the right, bolstering my case with repeated mention of my research. Unimpressed with what he could not see – namely the photos and satellite imagery I had studied – Miguel insisted the couloir was to the left, pointing out various topographical features to bolster his case. As Miguel pointed to a lone tree atop the jumble of buttresses and ridges, it dawned on me that Miguel was correct. That tree, which sits atop the couloir, thereafter became known as "Forjan's Tree".

Miguel's routefinding judgment was confirmed a little while later when we rounded a corner and looked up at the most obvious feature of the couloir: a narrow constriction bounded by vertical rock walls. Miguel considerately offered to call it "Sam's Gate", but I think a more evocative name is "The Gauntlet". The American Heritage Dictionary has two definitions for "gauntlet" that seem appropriate. One definition is "a severe trial; ordeal". The second definition is "two lines of men facing each other and armed with sticks or other weapons with which they beat a person forced to run between them."

The Gauntlet

Climbing from the first on-route sighting of the gauntlet to the gauntlet itself involved several hundred vertical feet of 30-40 degree snow of varying consolidation. Standing just below the gauntlet was intimidating for three reasons. First, there was the sound and occasional sting of the ice crystals whizzing through it. Second, there was the vast cone of avalanche debris below it. Third, there was the realization that anything falling from above will pass through it. This seemed like a good place to don my helmet. Considering the steepening terrain above, it also seemed like a good place to swap trekking poles for an ice axe. Crampons, however, remained in the pack.

With helmeted head down and ice axe in hand, I began running the gauntlet. Just past the gauntlet, my progress was slowed by bare ice under several inches of unconsolidated snow. Without crampons, I was forced to laboriously sink the ice axe shaft to the hilt every few steps. On the few occasions that both feet skated out from under me, the solid self-belays prevented an unwelcome slide back through the gauntlet. After about 100 tiring feet of this, I finally emerged into consolidated snow and climbed a few hundred vertical feet to where Miguel and Jeff were waiting.

Miguel Forjan climbing toward his namesake tree atop the couloir.

 

Video from near the top of the couloir.

With only a few hundred more vertical feet to Forjan's Tree at the top of the couloir, we considered donning crampons, but decided not to because of the soft snow. That turned out to be a bad decision. Within about 50 vertical feet of the top, conditions again turned icy. While Miguel struggled with the ice in the final stretch, I opted to climb a steeper and longer chute on the left. Though the snow in that chute was consolidated and not icy, the chute involved the steepest climbing of the day – probably 50+ degrees – with serious exposure just off to the left. The final few feet of the chute steepened even more, causing a few pangs of fear which were suppressed by the knowledge that the snow was exceptionally firm. I was relieved to mantle onto the crest of the ridge and delighted to see that Miguel was nestled under his namesake tree. However, I didn't relax until Jeff, who had followed my steps, also heaved himself onto the ridge crest.

Jeff Scofield near the top of the final chute.

Our plan was to traverse the south side of Yucaipa Ridge to the summit of Galena Peak. Unfortunately, the ridge was steep and convoluted on the south side (and much more so on the north side). Noises were made about descending what we had just come up. I was not eager to do that. After a relaxing break, Miguel traversed the south side of the ridge for about 100 feet, thought better of it, and then began ascending the crest of the ridge toward a precipitous, rocky peak. While Miguel was scrambling up the ridge toward Peak 9164, I took a long look at the traverse on the south side and saw what looked like a potentially feasible route to a saddle below a vertical rock buttress. Beyond that, the terrain was not visible. As I was slowly picking my way across some moderately steep chutes, Jeff yelled something like, "Wow, Miguel's rock climbing. I'm not doing that!" Nervous about what I would see on the other side of the saddle, and now baking in the southern exposure, I crept along. The final 20 feet to the saddle were steep. Peering over the top, I was happy to see a forested hillside.

The precipitous northwest face of Galena Peak from just east of Peak 9164.

After traversing the hillside under the cliffs of Peak 9164 for about 200 feet, I climbed a snow slope for a few hundred vertical feet to the ridge crest. There I cautiously peered over the edge and saw steep snow and rock sweeping 2000 vertical feet down to Mill Creek Canyon. Ascending a few more feet to a subsidiary summit of Peak 9164, I was disappointed to see Galena Peak more than a quarter mile away, with a low saddle in between. I yelled the news down to Jeff and Miguel, who had wisely not followed me up to the ridge crest. While they traversed two hundred vertical feet below me, I began a descending traverse to the bottom of a large rock buttress below the aforementioned saddle. From there I labored up soft snow for about 20 minutes to the westernmost (and presumably highest) of Galena Peak's three summits (9324 feet). Before long, Miguel and Jeff appeared and we enjoyed the summit while remaining several feet from the edge of its precipitous northwest face.

Miguel on the summit ridge of Galena Peak.

Yucaipa Ridge as seen from Galena Peak.  Peak 9164 sports the steep, snowy face in the center of the photo.

Video from the summit of Galena Peak.

The descent was uneventful. We followed the normal route to Mill Creek Jumpoff, glissaded, and walked back to the cars on mostly consolidated snow. Now for the numbers. It took us about 7 hours to get to the summit of Galena Peak and under 10 hours round trip. Though the elevation gain from the parking lot to Galena Peak is 3300 feet, with all of the ups and downs on the Yucaipa Ridge traverse, we probably gained close to 4000 feet. Finally, there is the issue of the route's name. Casual internet searching yielded no information about the couloir we climbed. Thus, I propose the following name: The Galena Gauntlet.

The image above was copied from Google Maps and edited.