Friday night, about 9:00pm, we slogged up the East Ridge of Mt. Oberlin above Logan Pass, and Ricky, my Slogfest Boreal S.A.G. partner, after going 0-3 on this journey, finally bagged his first summit.  Enroute, there were a few class three cliff bands and some sick views down the steep north face.  From the top, we observed a fiery sunset and soaked in an incredible vista.  Mt. Reynolds, our formidable goal for Independence Day stood out stark in the twilight.  And, the descent was not without a bit of fun.  Purposefully pursuing a large cym below the daunting east face of Mt. Clements, we navigated cliffs and slid down snow fields in the light of a near-full moon. ‘Twas awesome. We finally bedded down in our trucks around 2:00am.  Funny thing happened where we were parked. An abrasive annoying sound came from outside.  As it turned out, mountain goats were licking up our urine where it lay splattered on the pavement nearby.  I cannot speak for the others, but with grizzlies all over that park, I’m not walking into the woods to take a leak.  The pavement would have to suffice, and it did with the added benefit of drawing some wildlife for our viewing pleasure.

Early the next morning, hail pounded as a bad thunderstorm rolled through.  Huddled in the truck, I thought there would be no climbing this July Fourth.  Oberlin had just been a warm-up.  Only a successful ascent of a gnarly route on Reynolds would give me the positive closure I so desperately sought.  Thus, we waited, and things did clear off.  Dylan, Todd, and I set out for Mt. Reynolds, the Matterhorn-like spire just above Logan Pass.  It was a real pleasure to be with these past climbing partners again.  Dylan and I have bagged a plethora of peaks together, Mt. Rainier being our first real mountaineering adventure back in 2002.  We’ve also shared many a thrill and a few perils in the Sierra Nevada and the Cascades, some nasty bushwhacks in the Appalachians, and miles of slogging off the gringo trail in Nepal’s Himalaya.  As for Todd, a former snowboarding instructor in Mammoth Lakes, California, I’ll never forget us staggering up the Class 3 Volcanic Ridge in the Sierra while donning full backpacks and then playing around up in the Minarets.  Then, there was the time he literally rescued me off Mt. Laurel after I had fallen deathly ill atop the summit in the dark and therefore unable to descend the Class 3-4 route I had come up.  Good times.  This day, all of us sporting our preferred style of TCK Slog Series, and we hoped to add another peak to our treasure chest of memories.

The day was gorgeous, and once we got away from the bottleneck of people slogging up the snow to a nearby lake, the exercise became quite enjoyable.  Our desire was to attack a route across Reynolds’ precipitous north face. This approach involved a sick little game trail right across the face itself.  After a real slog across talus and up a Class 3 gully, we finally reached the game trail. However, there were still patches of ice in there that our axes would not pierce, and there was nowhere to maneuver above or below, only loose rock and sheer drop-offs.  One slight misstep would mean certain death.  Images of former accidents on nearby Going-to-the-Sun Mountain and Mt. Sinopah came to mind, but I was persistent.  Thankfully, Todd talked some sense into me.  Gentlemen, he said, “We’ve all got families.”  That was all I needed to hear.  We bailed therefore on that route and traversed cliff bands around to the south side, praying we could find a suitable route from the southwest.  Those prayers were answered, and we finally crested the summit.  The views were absolutely incredible, and the air was still.  We watched a thunderstorm to the north; I marveled that I had actually climbed Going-to-the-Sun Mountain back in 2004 via a diagonal snow gully that looked extremely sick from Reynolds’ summit; we signed the summit register; and then we headed down.

Secretly, I had been hoping to also bag the Dragon’s Tail this day.  When I unveiled these plans to my climbing partners on Reynolds’ summit, I was ridiculed, and rightfully so.  Like milling through a gluttonous buffet, I often find with peaks that my eyes are bigger than my stomach. Several Springs ago, for example, Dylan and I set off into the Sierra Nevada backcountry, boasting that we were going to bag Ritter, Banner, Lyell, Maclure, and Rodgers all in a long weekend.  By the time we were forced to slog up to Spooky Meadow in snowshoes and scavenge for a suitable campsite on the still frozen Thousand Island Lake, crossing Donahue Pass quickly became out of the question.  We were fortunate to bag Banner and Ritter, and this in and of itself took two days.  The hike out had us sinking in snow to our waists, and that with snowshoes.  When I petitioned that we at least attempt the Dragon’s Tail up on Reynolds’ summit, this story inevitably came up.  No, it was too late in the day, and we would have to rope up in places.  Besides, a huge notch in the northeast ridge had not been visible below.  This would be a problem best solved at another time.

Back at the truck, Ricky, my S.A.G. partner, had done quite a bit of reading, as he, inexperienced and uncomfortable with the climb, waited behind.  When we finally hooked up again, it was time to bathe and find a place to camp  A powerful ice-cold waterfall just off the road went beyond refreshing into the realm of pain, but at least the B.O. was gone.  Later, we camped out at a Highway 2 pull-off just outside Kalispell and enjoyed some last moments of fellowship before Dylan and Todd went home the next morning.  As for me, it was time to get back into the saddle.  Glacier was now behind; miles of Canadian highway lay ahead.  Pedal, I must.  Onward.