Tordrillo Ski Traverse

Andrew Wexler

In May 2008, Joe Stock, Dylan Taylor, and Andrew Wexler made a 160-kilometer, north-to-south ski traverse of Alaska's Tordrillo Mountains. Along the way, the trio summitted the Range's four highest peaks: Spurr (3373m), Torbert (3480m), Talachulitna (3374m), and Gerdine (3431m). This was their second attempt at the traverse.

After numerous false starts and a few too many evenings on the Anchorage scene, the weather cleared and we launched. We drove like wild men to Kenai, met the pilot, and flew into the Tordrillo Mountains one at a time in a Piper Super Cub. We landed on a low bench on the side of Mt. Spurr and started up. On our backs, we carried 30-kilogram packs with enough staying power for 12 days.

On the second day, we summitted Mt. Spurr and skied from the top. Deep snow and heavy packs kept us at it for a long time. We wanted to push on and drop down to a lower elevation, but we needed to be fresh for the looming icefall separating us from the Capps Glacier. We set up camp at 3000 meters and froze in our zero-degree sleeping bags.

Seven hours later, we woke to cold temps and high clouds, and moved off still wearing all our layers. We reached the icefall inside an hour and stared off at a high, technical ridge leading straight to Mt. Torbert. We all wanted to follow it, but felt that if we committed and it didn't go, we might blow our chance at the traverse. Our packs were reasonable for skiing, but were a bit much for fifth-class terrain. So we gambled on the icefall and descended into the broken maze.

Approaching Mt. Torbert

The Shark Fin!

I led down and eventually got stranded on an unsupported mushroom of snow, beneath sizeable seracs. For what seemed an eternity, I unclipped from my skis, put on my skins, and reversed back up to Dylan and Joe. We roped up and headed for a prominent shark-fin ridge splitting the icefall. The walls of the ridge were steep, so we did a few stability tests before climbing up to the crest. From the high ground, we spied a way through the steep, broken terrain below. We buried a pair of skis for an anchor and Joe belayed Dylan with our 30-meter rope. Dylan unclipped where the rope ran out and we followed his track down. Once off the ridge, we put the rope back on and skirted massive holes before exiting onto the flats. We spent the next few hours sweltering in the heat before setting up camp among some of the most beautiful couloirs and orange granite spires I have ever seen.

The next day saw us picking our way up through another icefall. After too many hours on the go, we called it quits and set camp below the Torbert Plateau at 2100 meters. Our big days were causing us to tear through the food and Dylan fantasized about killing and eating a bear once we got closer to our final destination. Personally, I was more concerned with being part of a hungry bear's gastronomic fantasy after the winter hibernation.

After the icefall on Day 3 – Tordrillo Mountains, Alaska

We couldn't have asked for better weather or conditions to traverse the Torbert Plateau and summit Mt. Torbert and Mt.Talachulitna. If I believed in this sort of thing, I'd say the Universe was being kind to us after the previous year's battering.

After two nights in the same spot, we continued towards the Great Wall. In 2007, this 600-meter high, 22-kilometer barrier marked the end of our trip. This year we approached the wall from the opposite side and aimed to descend what we'd previously tried to climb up.

Joe approaching the top

Trying to cut the cornice

We skinned and boot-packed up to a heavily corniced ridge and threaded our way over to a small bench overlooking the wall. The cornice was still in our way, so we tried sawing through it with the rope. When that didn't work, we threw rocks on the thing. All we managed to accomplish was to weaken the cornice and increase the odds that it would release while we were below it. Eventually, we found the least corniced section of ridge and set an anchor. We tied our three cordalettes to the rope, and Joe belayed while I down-climbed. When the rope came tight, I cleared away a few inches of snow, made a v-thread in blue ice, and unclipped from the rope. Joe pulled the rope up, belayed Dylan, then down-climbed with a belay from below. We repeated this process two more times before clipping back in to our skis and making mindful turns above the lurking bergschrund. When we got to the 'schrund, we tossed our packs across, aired the gap, and exited the wall. That night, we camped on the upper Triumvirate Glacier, in almost the exact same spot where our trip had ended in 2007.

The three of us were eager to push on the following morning and we skinned out over a glacier that sparkled like a disco ball. After a few hours on the go, we summitted Mt. Gerdine in high winds, and began the 1500-meter descent to the Trimble Glacier. Forty kilometers was all that separated us from the Skwentna River and the planned end of our traverse.

We weren't expecting day eight to be the hardest physically. We woke to high winds slamming the tent. It was snowing. Mt. Gerdine was getting hammered. If we'd been one day later, it is unlikely we would have summitted. But the cloud cover and cooler temps would now aid our progress through the lower elevation terrain ahead. Of course, the lower ground brought massive grizzly tracks and I fretted accordingly. After 14 hours on the move, we boot-packed up Old Man Pass and called it quits.

Dylan and Joe climbing Old Man Pass

When the alarm went off at 4 a.m., I would have been content to smash the alarm and lie in the same position all day. But our plan was to reach the Skwentna River and call in the pilot. We skinned and boot-packed up the final 900-meter slope and looked down on a 1200-meter descent to the river.

We should have been elated but we weren't. We were just tired. We called the pilot, arranged for a tentative pick-up the following day, and passed out.

On the morning of the tenth day, we summoned what little energy we had left and bushwhacked a few miles to a gravel bar where the pilot could land. Dylan and Joe got a fire going and roasted the last of their sausage, and I asked them to wake me when the platoon of hungry bears showed up for the feast. A few hours later, I woke to the sound of the Super Cub touching down on the gravel. One by one, the pilot flew us out of the mountains.

By the time we got to the small town of Skwentna, I was too tired tell if I was still lying on the gravel bar dreaming, or if the trip was really over. But it didn't seem to make too much difference. It's a fine line between yesterday and yesterday's dream, and I know I've been lucky when the two come together.