The North Ridge of Mount Stuart is hands down the most legendary climb in Washington. Since moving to the Pacific Northwest I had teetered back and forth about whether I wanted to tackle this beast of an alpine climb, notorious for its epic-inducing length. I finally settled on yes years ago but never had both the weather and partner for it. With a crux at about 9000 ft in the snowy Cascades, the season to climb is short for mere mortals such as myself. I think if you pitched it out, the complete North Ridge would amount to about 30 pitches of climbing, respectable in its own right, but leveling up to beast when combined with a long approach and descent, even by Cascades standards.

After refusing the previous year, Dave had lost enough sanity to agree to join me for the climb. Weather didn’t work out for us to do the route on a weekend, but that turned out to be a godsend. We decided to start early on a Sunday and bivy mid-way up the route, finishing on a Monday. We would have to carry all of our bivy gear and water for the entire route. The lower and upper halves of the route are distinctly divided by a large notch, and many parties opt to do only the upper half of the route, approaching via the Stuart Glacier. I would soon understand why Nelson and Potter’s Classic Climbs includes only this upper portion of the route.

We weren’t able to leave the night before the climb for life reasons, so we met dark and early at 2:30 am to start the drive east. At 5 am the trailhead was still dark but disturbingly bustling with activity, with people getting in and out of vans, cars idling, and a line forming at the single toilet. We weren’t the only ones getting an early start that day. We could only hope that the crowds had objectives other than the North Ridge. The approach through Ingalls basin was lovely in the early morning light. Several parties passed us, but thankfully most of them were headed for the West Ridge of Stuart, another popular but less committing route on the peak. One party was going for the North Ridge in a day, so they would be much faster than us.

After passing Ingalls Lake, the route finding became less straightforward. Multiple forking trails led in different directions, and the paths were not always easy to follow. We only made minor route finding errors though and quickly arrived at Goat Pass, where the West Ridge and North Ridge approaches diverge. The route finding only became more difficult as we continued, which was surprising given the popularity of the route. Much of the time no trail or path was evident, but we made decent time picking a route across the scree slopes and boulder fields. I made a conscious effort to take my time on the uphill, as I always regret arriving to the base of a climb already exhausted.

We were confused to see another party across a gulley from us because they appeared to be descending. It was nice to have somewhere to aim for though, since the terrain ahead looked like heinous steep scree. The other party’s quick progress suggested that it wasn’t as bad as it looked, which turned out to be true. I shouted a greeting at them as they passed slightly above us on a boulder field, inquiring where they were headed. They informed us that they were bailing off the North Ridge after being unable to cross the Stuart Glaicer safely without crampons. They told us that we shouldn’t have to cross too much snow to get to the base of the lower ridge though, which was a relief because we had decided not to bring any traction.

We came to another pass where we actually saw a goat, beyond which the route finding became more difficult. We passed over one ridge after another, never quite able to see beyond the next ridge. We just aimed in a general direction, spending some time searching for the elevation of easiest passage at each ridge and trough. One of the first ridges was dangerously loose and steep, requiring careful navigation. After that the terrain transitioned to boulder fields and low angle snow fields, but it was still slow going. I found it very curious how little sign of previous human passage there was, even on the snow. Perhaps each party chose a different route, or perhaps the snowfields had simply melted out quickly. We passed another person bailing off the route, a soloist who had determined the upper route to be too crowded to continue. Surprising given Saturday’s poor weather forecast. This added to my already growing anxiety about how long the approach was taking but made me happy that we had not started on Saturday. I guess I underestimated how crowded the route would be. I certainly haven’t seen anything like it elsewhere in the Cascades. Would we arrive at the bottom of the route behind schedule only to have to wait in line? I hoped not.

I was relieved when we could finally see the base of the climb. Another party appeared behind us out of nowhere. They were shouting at each other almost continuously, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I assumed they would be faster than us and tried to pick up the pace to make it to the base of the route first, but I soon realized they were making even slower progress than we were. I was thankful for the very distinct j-shaped pine tree on the first pitch of the route, which would otherwise have been difficult to find. I wasn’t expecting it to be so far above us, and a significant class 4 scramble was required to get to the real start of the route. I arrived to the base sweaty but stoked and racked up.

The party behind us showed up just as I was leaving the ground – perfect timing? I was like “where did you come from?” and they were like “we started before you but got lost.” They were originally hoping to climb the entire route in a day. They must have been far ahead of us because we hadn’t seen any sign of them until late in the approach. I led the first pitch, realizing just how much more difficult 5.8 feels with a large pack, which I had to take off for the squeeze crux. We only had a 60 meter twin rope doubled over for 30 meters. I had read that this was a good strategy for the route, but in retrospect we really needed a longer rope for the pitched sections. Dave had to start climbing just so I could make it to a semi-hanging belay above the crux. Not ideal.

When the party behind us asked to link the first two pitches and pass us, we were fine with it. They seemed confident despite their difficulty with the approach. This turned out to be an excellent decision because Dave dropped a cam while following the first pitch. The other party kindly agreed to bring it up to us, and we waited for them at our crappy belay station. The leader of the party behind us ended up struggling hard on the crux. We watched from only several feet above as he thrashed and grunted, shouting down encouragements. It’s always great to watch someone pushing their limits climbing, especially in a relatively safe situation. Needless to say they didn’t want to pass us anymore, so we decided to continue, and in another short pitch we made it to a luxurious ledge where we ate some snacks and waited for our cam fairy to arrive. Dave said he was struggling, though by outward appearances seemed to be doing fine.

Our new friends arrived at the belay ledge and were full of banter. In fact they were probably the loudest pair of alpine climbers I have ever encountered. The best way I can describe them is like a real life Abott and Costello routine. We climbed a nice crack for our third pitch, then started simulclimbing. The Ice Cliff Glacier thundered dramatically beside us. Based on trip reports, I had expected the climbing to become considerably easier after the crack, but it was about the same grade, in my opinion. The features also became very blocky to the extent that one could never see beyond a couple of moves ahead, making the route finding difficult. Sometimes I would follow what seemed like the easiest and cleanest rock, only to be faced with lichen-covered, hard technical climbing at the next ledge. I did a lot of backtracking, downclimbing, traversing, and general shenanigans. I can’t imagine what poor Dave was thinking at that point. In retrospect we should have continued pitching out the route for while longer. The climbing and route finding eventually eased up, and we arrived at a section of grassy scrambling with multiple bivy spots. We had about an hour until sunset and decided to push on despite having no idea how long it would be until we reached another bivy spot. I figured the guys behind us would appreciate having this spot to sleep, and we weren’t eager to spend the night with them.

We made smooth progress after that, but there were no flat spots in sight. I was incredibly relieved to finally arrive at a bivy spot just as the sun was setting – perfect timing. I wasn’t sure at first, but after checking our elevation confirmed that we had arrived at notch between the lower and upper ridge. It wasn’t as obvious as I had expected. We had it all to ourselves, though there were bivy spots for several more people. All in all it had taken us about 15 hours to get there, 8 of those on the approach. It was a beautiful end to a stressful day. I slept quickly and soundly.

We awoke to a perfect day and were shortly basking in the warm sunlight on our little perch. Dave didn’t have as good a night as I did, waking up to a soaked sleeping bag in the middle of the night. He set his sleeping bag to dry in the sun and chuckled when I pulled my comically giant ultralight sleeping pad out of my bivy sack. Despite an exhausting day and a rough night, Dave rallied admirably as we began the second half of the climb. We climbed over a large tower, downclimbed the other side, and continued to the famed sharp ridge of rock. The route finding was easy and the rock clean, scrubbed white by thousands of hands and feet over the decades. Unlike the lower ridge, we could see far along the route, making for some dramatic vistas. We started to hear the shouts of the party behind us and at one point saw them, but they never caught up to us. We also heard some female shouts, but I couldn’t tell where they were coming from. The other parties on the route put more stress on me than they should have. I tried to climb as quickly as possible, which meant placing less gear to make our simulclimbing blocks longer. In retrospect I wish I had spent more time enjoying our climbing and position instead of stressing about speed.

I was running out of gear within sight of the large ledge at the base of the crux tower, the “Great Gendarme.” I got creative and at one point tied my rappel backup directly to a nut. Getting to the base of the tower was a huge confidence booster since we were making great time and had completed most of the route. After the previous day’s flailing, I was more nervous about the easy parts of the climb than the more difficult sections with their obvious features, one of which we had arrived at. The only problem was that the ledge absolutely reeked of urine, a different kind of motivation to get moving quickly. The first pitch was a fun layback, the second pitch a hand traverse to an offwidth. It was a true offwidth for a little lady such as myself, contrary to the perspective of some trip report authors. I squirmed, grunted, chicken-winged, knee jammed, climbed up, climbed down, got stuck, accidentally kicked my only piece of protection – a tipped out number 3 camalot—and finally attempted a hand-fist stack before focusing all my energy on getting the cam into a good enough placement to rest on. By the grace of god that happened, and after a breather I was able to pull through the crux. It was really only a single move, so I can imagine why someone with a bit more reach would find it the same grade as the previous pitch. Dave quickly laybacked the entire pitch. I was glad we decided to haul our packs on that one!

After another block of simulclimbing, we caught up a party of two women. They had spent the night on the large ledge at the base of the gendarme, explaining the pee smell, and were pitching out the entire route. Ouch! The leader was starting up a serious-looking pitch, and we debated which way to go. Clearly straight up was the most traveled way, but it looked improbably steep for what was supposed to be 5.7. We opted to wait for the other party and follow the same route they took, instead of taking a crack to the left and passing them. The pitch was not as hard as it looked from below but definitely felt harder than 5.7. Again, maybe it was just the pack. We passed the other party and simulclimbed to the summit.

We gratefully freed ourselves from our climbing shoes and gear, soaking up the sun and the views. We had a snack, signed the summit register, and started the journey down. Dave had run out of water at that point, and I did too shortly thereafter. The first part of the descent was mostly well marked with cairns, then it deteriorated into a series of boulder and scree fields, and finally to the dusty, winding path down the Cascadian couloir. I’m not sure why this descent has such a reputation for being terrible – maybe just because it is so long, but the terrain itself was not worse than what I have come to expect from the Cascades. We passed a snowfield and crammed some snow into our water bottles, patiently waiting for the delicious drops to melt. After the path became more obvious, a branch point split to the next couloir to our right (Ulrich’s?). The rightmost path would take us about a mile closer to our exit, so we opted to go that way instead of straight down the Cascadian. I was a little nervous because I thought everyone must go all the way down the Cascadian for a reason, but it was fine. Not a great trail but good enough.

We made it down to Ingall’s Creek more quickly than I expected and took a long-awaited water break. It was wonderful to gulp the abundant clear water after surviving on drips and drops. I thought we were out of the woods, rhetorically speaking of course, in terms of route finding, since the hike out was on an established trail. Wrong! An avalanche had wiped out a portion of the trail, and we soon found ourselves bushwhacking. It was at this point that I stopped to look at where we were going for the first time since hitting the trail. When I saw where we were headed, I was shocked at how much elevation we had to gain. I’m not sure why, but I was expecting more like 500 ft instead of the 1500 in front of us. While Dave seemed perfectly happy to keep bushwhacking, I pulled out my GPS and insisted we beeline back to the trail. The sun set as we arrived at Long’s Pass, and we looked out over the massive landscape we had just traversed. I was filled with a mystical wonder at being the only humans in this vast natural space. But I knew we were not alone. I hoped the other parties would make it down safely. We hiked the rest of the way down in the deepening darkness, arriving at a nearly empty parking lot to start the long drive home.