Bibler-Klewin, Take - One.
Author / Climber: Nate Lynch
April / May 2024
When you fly onto the SE fork of the Kahiltna nowadays, there is a high chance one of the first people you’ll meet is Gabby, the basecamp manager. Usually wearing a stylish combination of mountain wear and colorful accessories that are characteristic of her energy, she will greet you, ask your team name, and request your flight card after you step off the plane – something everybody welcomes after a 45 minute flight in from Talkeetna. The flight is loud as it is beautiful in the supercharged DCH-3 prop plane which harbors over 600 horsepower and can transport approximately 2000 pounds of passengers and supplies per flight. Whether it’s your first or tenth time in the range, the relief of the peaks is striking, and the excitement to climb soon becomes palpable after hopping onto the glacier.
The events preceding this moment typically include meticulously combing through spreadsheets while home to ensure every item makes it into its respective duffle – unpacking and repacking in Anchorage and Talkeetna, shopping for anywhere from three to six weeks worth of sustenance at Costco, hauling it all to Talkeetna and finally, waiting to fly out.
Accounting for everything can become quite the task. Deciding what to take and what to leave behind based on your expedition style and objectives can become rather time consuming. Tyler, pictured above, likes to refer to tasks in terms of how many beers one can consume while completing them. For example – cooking dinner: one beer. Changing your car’s oil: three beers. Waxing your skis: two beers, and so on. Packing for an expedition into the range quickly racks up the beers as we deliberate how many anodized knick knacks or rolls of toilet paper to take with us.
The Alaska Range is known for its inclement weather that bombards the many peaks, ridges, glacial valleys and headwalls. As winter begins to tire, climbers from near and far embark on a pilgrimage into the range to ascend what the storms leave in their wake. An ephemeral combination of rock, snow, and ice that take shape in ways allowing us to experience the sublime and push ourselves to our limits. Climbing in Alaska is anything but dilute.
When we arrive on the Southeast Fork of the Kahiltna glacier, after three days of waiting for the weather to clear in Talkeetna, we are fired up and ready to climb. It’s been two years since my first trip into the range, and the sight of Begguya (Mt. Hunter) draws me in. We briskly probe a campsite, stomp out a flat area for our tents, and get on with a ski up the valley to assess the routes that flank the terminus of the Southeast Fork. Each of us is eager to see the Bibler-Klewin, the seminal classic on the north buttress and our main objective this trip, with our own eyes. On our first pass, we are a bit disappointed to see that it has remained caked in snow from the unusually heavy snowfall the preceding winter; yet we are hopeful the route will shed some of its winter coat and allow us safe passage in the weeks to come.
Late alarm clocks, shorter outings, and socializing around camp underpin the following days as gentle snow showers periodically come and go, reminding us not to leave too much of camp unbuttoned or untended. We lay in wait for our friend Stewart to relay when a weather window will be available to attempt our primary objective – the Bibler-Klewin, also known as the Moonflower.
The North Buttress of Mount Hunter rises abruptly for 4000 feet from the upper Southeast Fork of the Kahiltna. Its steep walls can be compared to those of the north face of the Eiger, or as Rob Newsom put it after the second ascent of the route, Gasherbrum IV. The buttress hosts many routes, most of which opened roughly between 1970 and 2000, though the buttress has seen some new ascents and linkups in recent years. Some of the earlier notable first ascents include The Wall of Shadows (Child-Kennedy, 1994), the Moonflower Buttress (Stump-Aubrey, 1981), The Knowledge (Cartwright-Parnell, 2001), Deprivation (Backes-Twight, 1994) and the Lowe-Kennedy (Kennedy-Lowe, 1977) – each as bold as the last. It first caught my attention as I returned to the airstrip on the Southeast Fork on my last trip. After climbing Denali’s Cassin Ridge, my desire to return and climb a harder technical line was ever growing. By spring the following year, the feeling was overwhelming. The Moonflower, with its five unique crux pitches and storied history, seemed the perfect challenge. Hard enough to test my skills and take my climbing to the next level, but not incomprehensibly difficult.
Since then, I decided to become more strategic with my approach to training. I went on climbing trips more sparingly in effort to stash extra money away to afford an expedition in the spring of 2024, and spent more time rock climbing locally in the Cascade Range. After getting married in September, and as summer led to fall, my partner Emanuel Rohss and I made trips to Yosemite; Alberta, B.C.; Bozeman, Montana, and frequented our local alpine areas to harbor the fitness and skills prior to our first attempt on the buttress.
On May 11th, we awoke to news of a potentially stable forecast on the 13th-15th. We were ecstatic. Finally, we would have a crack at the route we'd been training all winter to climb. Having spent plenty of time wallowing to the base of Mini-Moonflower and Bacon and Eggs, and realizing how much of a time suck it could be, we decided to spend the morning of the 12th stomping a boot pack up to the bergschrund and enjoying a partial rest day. We figured this could save us at least an hour or two and preserve our energy most needed for the route’s cruxes. That evening, we seared caribou sausage and combined it with pasta in excess, sorted the rack, packed our bags, took a crack at the evening trivia, and fell deep into sleep. Whatever anxiety we felt about potential worst-case scenarios in the following days faded as a gentle breeze traveled through our camp.
The next morning, we rose early and made our way to the base of the wall. It seemed benevolent, angelic in the morning glow. All of us were happy to be stomping up the boot pack we put in the day prior. When we crossed the ‘shrund, I looked back to see if any other parties would be joining, but none seemed to follow our path.
We proceeded up the first few pitches of neve, moving quickly. We had our respective blocks to lead and the first to dispatch was Emanuel’s. He aimed for a passage that connected the first snow field to the second, which we would need to gain before traversing below the twin runnels. In photographs I had gleaned from trip reports and guide books, this passage seemed to be the way through what were typically curtains of alpine ice, though during our attempt still predominantly snow. When we arrived at the constriction that adjoined the two curtains, there was a bit of overhanging snow plastered to a left facing corner. This was the obvious weakness that would allow us to progress to the second curtain of neve above. Neither Tyler nor Emanuel felt strongly about forging upward, so the lead was left to me. The overhang looked consolidated enough. I took our remaining picket that wasn’t being used in the current anchor and a few cams and pins just in case. Digging for rock gear in the previous pitches had proven time consuming and often fruitless, and screws were useless in the snow, though from time to time we’d try one and convince ourselves that it was worth leaving in place, either out of laziness or for “mental protection.” However, as I began up the corner, I was glad to have a few totems. I cleared the lower bits of snow away and, to my surprise, found two confidence inspiring cam placements. Scraping my tools against the snow covered rock until I gained purchase, I edged my way towards the overhanging bit of snow, hoping it would be dense enough to hold my weight. After a few swings, I wasn’t convinced. However, realizing my position was too insecure to down climb to my last piece and lower off, I was committed. Emanuel heard me call out to “watch me close here” a couple times as I gingerly hooked my way up the snow blob. A few more slow and controlled movements, my heart in my stomach, I pulled over the bulge – my mouth as dry as it would be after cruxing on a rock route in the heat. I munched on some snow, slammed in the picket, and ran out the rest of the rope before I found a belay strong enough to hold likely falls from my counterparts. To my surprise, there were none. It was a taxing pitch, and as I handed the lead back to Tyler, I could tell the energy was low. With the exception of the last bit, it felt as if we were climbing belay to belay with little-to-no protection for 50-70 meters at a time. When we arrived at the traverse, it was late in the afternoon and I could sense bailing was was something each of us considered. Having been slowed by searching for protection we knew we’d be in for a long day to get to the bivy on the first ice band, still high above then. Before I allowed myself the forfeit, I traversed a rope length to try and get a view of the runnels. With the prospect of continuing on being contingent on some visible ice in the runnels, as we’d agreed a few hours earlier. Much to my dismay, there was none, I radioed back to Tyler and Emanuel my findings. They had a rap anchor ready as soon as I was back at the belay.
As we rappelled into the evening, we made peace with our decision to retreat, acknowledging that we had hoped to climb the Moonflower in better conditions. As we imagined its runnels glistening with ice in the evening light, we agreed to return next year during a time when it was void of excess snow to try again.
The subsequent days, we watched two strong parties try the line. Each moved efficiently, but were stopped by a huge snow mushroom which clogged the shaft, the route’s physical crux, or for other reasons unknown to us. A week later, a few good samaritans rappelled the route and kicked off the snow mushroom, allowing for future parties to ascend. One, we heard, was successful.
After climbing the north buttress couloir on the Mini-Moonflower for consolation, we opted to fly back to Talkeetna as soon as the weather permitted to avoid the possibility of missing our flights home from Anchorage. Once back in town, another Alaska Range trip in the rear view with varying degrees of success and failure, we discussed what we had appreciated about the trip and what we had learned. We talked about what we may change for our return next year and future attempts on Alaskan peaks. The discussion was positive and brought closure to our adventure.
That night, as I drifted to sleep in a warm bed in Anchorage, my subconscious took me back to Mt. Hunter. Back at the foot of the north buttress, enchanted by the banners of snow in the setting Alaskan sun, the walls beckoned. With my mind at ease, I began to climb.
