Mount Drum: Edge of the Wrangells

Alaska is big. Expansive land- built on glaciated ranges, thick forests, broad snaking rivers, tundra, and vast wetlands is home to fabled history. Great land animals like moose, bear, wolverine, & wolf populate valley & mountainside alike. By winding coast, often composed of tidewater glacier & fjord, a variety of sealife live in harmony with cold waters. It is here I arrived several years ago- younger, looking up at towering mountains, their sharp ridges jutting into the sky. As a child I read of Alaska- it was a land too far & from what I’d learned then- too difficult for a New England boy like me. Little did I know then that Alaska would become a foundational piece by which I live. And that the depth of my experiences here would unlock many doors to my future… 

For many climbers, Alaska is a dream, perhaps a fascination unlike others, and a trip to the mountains here is surely memorable. My interest in Alaska quickly snowballed into an obsession and I now live here. Like many Alaska climbers past, present, and future, I am often found in cabins amongst the woods or in cold mountain tents- crawling into a sleeping bag. This raw, difficult, and powerful land never ceases to perk our curiosity for another trip. Another foray into the great mountains that loom on the horizon… 

On April 29th I was in the Knik River Valley resting from a trip in the Hayes Range when the delivery truck dropped off my La Sportiva G2 Evos. The new model replacing the trusty G2 SM catches your eyes right when you open the box. Noticeable upgrades are readily apparent and I couldn’t help but wear them around the yard for a while. Two days later, forecasts showed a nice weather window opening up over Mount Drum in Wrangell-St Elias National Park. I messaged my friend Nick Sweeney to see if he could come up from Spokane. Nick is an alpine fanatic and has never been to Alaska- this was sure to rope him in. All I had to do was hype it up and tell him it was going to be the most amazing experience of his life. He had just climbed a new route on Mt Hood so I said,

“It’s like Mt Hood… But you know, in Alaska…” We had a good laugh about that one. 

Climbing in remote Alaska isn’t a fairytale- you’re on your own out there. Though Nick had never been, I knew he would be super solid. I didn’t even have a pilot lined up and us getting to the bottom of the mountain wasn’t certain. There was a mutual agreement we’d commit to an adventure- Nick was in and on the way up in 2 days. 

Through the grapevine I called pilots, who would recommend I call another guy, who would again recommend another guy, and finally the coin landed on legendary bush pilot Chuck McMahan. Chuck is the founder of Heli skiing, which he did with an airplane in Thompson Pass, and has flown in Alaska his entire life. I knew none of this at the time. Chuck lives in Gakona which is on the west side of the Copper River, with Mount Drum an unobstructed flight about 40 miles Southeast. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey Chuck! My name is Benny. Meekins told me to call you. My friend and I are climbers and we’re looking for a ride to Mount Drum. Will you take us?” I asked. 

A great conversation ensued and the plan was set. 

“What airport should I meet you at?” 

“Uh… Just come by the house on Monday morning.” 

Good enough for us. 

When Nick arrived in Anchorage we spent a day getting our stuff together then drove up to the Lodge at Black Rapids in the Hayes Range where most of the expedition equipment was. On Monday morning after a short rest we turned off the Richardson and down a muddy and wooded driveway. Through the trees we saw a small float plane docked in the lake. At the end of the driveway, Chuck’s house was on the right and to the left was a hangar. Parked around it some 10 bush planes, all sorts of shapes & sizes and colors and with different trinkets. Beyond- a grass-covered clearing widened amongst the thickly grown muskeg forest. As we walked out toward an old man heading to us I nudged Nick, “I think that grass is the runway…” Childish smiles grew ear to ear… this was going to be an adventure. 

Chuck gave us a tour of his hangar, it was packed with half-built aircrafts, parts, relics, photos, and an old broken plane ski made of wood. It had a large hole in it and worn down red paint. I pointed to it, “Wow! Is that a ski?” 

“Yeah, hit a rock with that one.” Chuck said laughing. Then he added, “And we’re using some of those today.” 

Walking back out to the homegrown airfield, Chuck brought us over to a small two-seater cub… on red wooden skis. After grabbing our gear, I hopped in first. With the plane slightly stuck in the mud, Chuck had Nick wiggle the sub-thousand pound bush plane free by shaking it via the wing. A moment later it felt like Chuck and I were water skiing across the mud and grass. A U-turn and then full speed ahead, we were up in the air and headed to Mount Drum. 

When we arrived, the clamshell door swung open and my G2s arrived home when they sank into the Alaskan snowpack. The plane quickly flew off and I was alone on the mountainside for about an hour before Nick arrived. It was a special time, as it always is when you get to be alone waiting for your partner. The air was cool but warm rays of sun heated my jackets and my boots were submerged in the snow. 

A few hours later, we were skinning towards the southwest ridge in our climbing boots. Just a couple hours after, now on the ridge itself by foot, the weather went sour. The sky greyed over in turbulent milky sheets and snow spattered against us. We decided to set up camp and shortly after realized we would be stuck here for some time. Mount Drum, sticking out from the tundra and slightly separated from its Wrangell counterparts, receives wind unabated for more than a hundred miles in multiple directions. The “Hurricane Ridge,” where we were now sitting curled up in our tiny tent, is known for harsh winds. More than 24 hours would go by until we had the opportunity to move up. 

As the sky began to clear, we finally made the move to our original goal of a high camp just over 9,000ft on the ridge. The major shoulder is an obvious launching point for a chance to the summit but still lies somewhere around two miles from the top. With winds ripping from the southeast, we dug out the northern side of the ridge and plopped our tent onto the perch. Anchored with ice screws, pickets, and trekking poles, it seems pretty solid. With a lightweight tarp over the tarp, we even had a nice patio outside to squeeze into snow benches hip to hip. It didn’t get very dark that night and there was beauty in sitting with a friend alone high on an Alaskan mountain. We had great phone service, ironically, and sent photos to our friends and family. When I became a climber, I longed for the days spent “out of service.” But in my lonesome days, now stacking on top of each other, I greatly missed my family and friends. The opportunity to share photos and messages with them of my life in the mountains is something I never pass up and I deeply appreciate having some phone service. After all, it had been more than a year since I’d seen my family. 

On a cold and windy morning we set off along the winding, exposed, and corniced ridge towards the summit. It is a lot farther than it looks and the ridge is full of surprises. I was feeling particularly cold and bundled up in many layers. As a child I dreamed of these moments- tying into a rope on one end, and a partner on the other. Just two of us now on this knifed summit ridge. Just two of us here in the expansive wilderness of Mount Drum. 

Climbing up, down, and sideways over cornices, mushrooms, and ice gendarmes- the further we went the more we felt like we were sticking our necks out there. It was brilliant fun. At one point I came to a mystery section in the ridge that I had been wondering about going into the trip. The ridge bent sideways and dropped away thousands of feet on either side. Eventually I found myself straddling on the ridge. With wind blasting my sun-burned cheeks, and my tools being buried deep in those frozen ridge, I scooted along it laughing and smiling. I looked over at Nick, who had a smile equally as big as mine. Wow! What an experience this was! 

Shortly after, the odds stacked against us. The ridge was full of wildly transverse crevasses hidden under wind-loaded powder. On repeat, I poked into an array of crevasses, trembling each time as I clung to my tools and backed off. It was like walking blindly on a fake floor. On the south side, giant rime ice mushrooms, similar to something seen on Cerro Torre towered from the summit ridge and over the valley below. To the other, a traditional steep glaciated mountainside hung below us. Many feet of unconsolidated powder stacked itself on the north side. We briefly discussed the incoming weather and decided to continue. Not long after, it was checkmate. A wide crevasse with a powder snow-bridge opened under my feet and Nick decided to give it a try finding the way through. No luck. Above us was more powder and more crevasses too wide to step over. We were just below the West summit and the wind was ripping at us. Ice crystals shot over from the south and all of a sudden our Alaskan dream crumbled. It became clear this was too much to ask of two guys that didn’t have a Bivi kit. We decided to descend, climbing back up, down, and around the wild features we’d come through. Arriving at our high camp, we took only a short break before grabbing our stuff and continuing down in high winds and blowing cold- the storm was near! 

As we stumbled back to the landing zone, the sky was stormed over and new snow fell in light blankets over us. The upper mountain could not be seen and we were lucky to have turned around when we did or we’d be in for a long night on the summit ridge. Climbing in remote Alaska has been a humbling learning experience. Staying alive is a very real concern and though you can ride courage and motivation to the summit- it may one day take your life. Scrunched up again in our little tent, no one around but two friends, we won the rewards of being in a safe spot, rather than the reward of the summit. After all, friendship is the highest prize here and the summit is simply a treat to take with you. Sharing stories, memories, and talking about future trips to the mountains was the topic of the evening for us. 

The next day Chuck flew in and packed both of us, and all of our equipment, into his two-seater plane. I sat in the back, which is actually for gear storage and not an actual seat. As Chuck latched a metal bar across my lap I said to him, “Hey Chuck, I didn’t know you could sit back here.” 

With his timeless laugh and smile, he looked up and said, “Well, that’s where I used to ride as a kid.” 

“Good enough for me!” I called back. 

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in Alaska over the years- it’s that life here is not ordinary and there is no rule book. We are all at odds with the land and life itself. There is no set plan and set outcome. Everything is left to a series of variables out of our control and we do what we have to do to get home safe. Moments later the clamshell door swung shut and we flew off the side of Mount Drum, three ducks in a row, with legendary pilot Chuck McMahan flying us home…