Even though I grew up in Washington, I returned here in October 2019 delightfully unaware of many – if not most – of the state’s classic hikes and climbs. My ignorance has provided me with the opportunity to find countless “new to me” pockets of the state, a beneficial pastime in the midst of a global pandemic. Even the dark, dreary days of December are not enough to make me wish I was somewhere else.
We drove over to the Olympic Peninsula with the goal of climbing Mt. Ellinor in early December, when the avalanche risk was lower there than anywhere else in the state. I have it on my tick list to climb both Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Hood this winter, and I knew I needed some more practice moving in the snow, as well as more conditioning, before attempting these.
We parked at the lower trailhead after reading about snow beyond the turnoff, still shell-shocked from our experience of the world’s iciest forest road up Kulshan (Mt. Baker). It was completely dry to that point, which posed a challenge. I had brought my Baruntses for their first time out of the box, in the hope of wearing them in a bit, but I had not brought any other shoes. I was wearing sneakers designed for urban fashion and no more than a quick stroll in a park.
The first several miles of trail switched gently back and forth through a dense forest, and I had begun to wonder whether we would ever reach much snow at all. Within a mile or so, we started to encounter snow, but it was intermittent and thin. I quickly discovered that my sneakers were the most slippery shoes known to mankind, and I relied heavily on my hiking pole to carry me upwards.
After about another mile, the snow became thick enough that I decided to put on the Baruntses, as well as my crampons (which were thoroughly unnecessary at this point). I still was not especially optimistic about the amount of snow we would be encountering that day.
It was not until we broke through to flat ground that the snowpack finally became much thicker. We were still surrounded by trees, but the snow blanketing the ground gave me a newfound excitement about the environment surrounding me. We walked a bit further until we could see up some of the Winter Route.
The Winter Route up Mt. Ellinor follows a chute that is around 40 degrees at its steepest point. As I climbed my way up the chute, I remembered to turn around and look out – and I was met with sweeping views of the sound thousands of feet below. I didn’t stop for too long before plunging my ice axe back into the solid snow in front of me, feeling once again connected to the earth. We made our way up in mid-morning, and it was not very icy, but the snow was hard enough that my ice axe and my crampons sung as I made my way up.
On the way back down in the late morning, after stopping for a requisite turkey sandwich, hot tea, and photographic evidence on the summit, the snow had begun to turn to slush. It was still solid enough that making our way down wasn’t too difficult, but it was slushy enough to be slightly unpleasant. I was happy that we were beginning our descent, as many were still making their way up through the increasingly loose, shifting slush.
Over-Gripping 