Initially, I had not planned on writing anything of significance related to the day-trip I took up Mount Olympus on Saturday, February 22, 2020. There is so much information relating to it that I didn’t anticipate having much to add. I didn’t take many pictures, and didn’t plan for writing as I was heading up the mountain. However, given the conditions of the route, and what I witnessed up there, I felt a writeup was warranted, if nothing else, to provide future parties with perspective. I witnessed numerous close calls, and thought it warranted a few words. If this is read no further, at least heed this advice… Do not underestimate this mountain, especially the final push to the summit.
I have made two attempts on Mount Olympus, this last being my first successful summit. My first attempt came in the middle of the summer, and I did not follow my own advice. I got off work around three in the afternoon, and decided I would make a quick “run” up the peak. I fell victim to a dissonance many might. Mount Olympus is dominant in the Salt Lake valley, and there are always photos, stories, and posts of people going up, to the point it doesn’t seem a serious endevour. It is only a bit over three miles to the summit; from my perspective I should have been able to easily summit and return, maybe under headlamp, but without great difficulty. I was mistaken in that assessment.
I appreciated neither the steepness, the rocks, nor difficulty of the trail to the saddle, called by some the Balcony. After about two and a half miles, I was feeling very good about myself, right to the bottom of the most intense switchbacks, known as Blister Hill. At the top of the switchbacks, I was feeling my legs, but assumed the end was closer than it was. I kept pushing. The slog from the top of Blister Hill to the Balcony destroyed me. It was far hotter than I anticipated, and I hadn’t brought enough food, nor enough water. But, the summit was so close, I felt it was going to be a successful summit bid.
As I crossed the saddle toward the summit chute, I realized how weak I felt. I made my way up the chute, past an arete on my left, and prepared for what appeared would be the worst climbing. It is only Class 3, as I expected, but I was concerned in my state I would not have the margin of safety I wanted, being by myself, with no other climbers in the vicinity. Dusk was threatening to close in, and being my first time up the trail, I decided it best to turn around, and avoid any issues with the “easy” part of the trail, navigating back to the car. There were enough splits in the trail I noticed coming up I was afraid I wouldn’t make it back to my car, even being able to see the city from a majority of the trail. I was still halfway up the mountain when darkness descended, and I pulled out my headlamp. After an hour or so, I made it back to my car, my legs destroyed from the downhill hammering.
All of this is to say, I knew what I was getting myself into in attempting a winter ascent. I knew the final quarter mile or so would be the most difficult, and the rest wouldn’t be especially easy. As such, I went prepared. Ice tool, my old original Black Diamond Cobra, and my mountaineering crampons. A few weeks prior, I had terrible luck with my YakTrax, as I struggled up the Southwest Ridge of Grandeur Peak. I wasn’t willing to subject myself to those frustrations on a peak like Mount Olympus. I also planned far more time than I thought it would take. I planned on a full half day excursion. My wife left for work, and I drove the short distance to the trailhead.
Mount Olympus dominates my neighborhood. I have spent many nights looking at the West Slabs from my backyard, watching people descend under headlamp. I was excited, and somewhat apprehensive as I drank the last of my coffee, driving around the shoulder of the mountain. I checked the avalanche conditions on my way, a low danger day, but it would be warm. An added consideration to put in my mind.
I left the packed trailhead at around eight a.m. A group was heading past Pete’s Rock with ice axes, snow pickets, and helmets. I felt I was adequately prepared, and began the grind up to the first Bonneville Shoreline Trail Junction. I had adequate water, extra clothes, my ax and crampons, my first aid kit, my phone and Garmin InReach. I took gear not only for myself, but with the conscious decision someone else may get into trouble. I would rather have the basics, than wish I did later in the day.
I passed most parties on the lower section of the trail. People were out walking their dogs, the occasional trail runner either passed me going up or coming down. I made steady progress. I knew to pace myself lower on the mountain, given the challenges further into the route. At the top of Blister Hill, I finally succumbed to crampons. I had just enough traction to make it up, but I was starting to slip, and didn’t want to waste more energy than necessary keeping myself upright. The snow on Blister Hill appeared stable, but I put in the back of my mind it may be less so on the way down, as the temperatures were supposed to reach the 50s.
As I plodded along, I noted the chutes on my right, which were loaded with snow. I wasn’t horribly concerned with avalanche danger, but I was cognizant of the risk. I wouldn’t want to be around Blister Hill, or the uphill following it, with any elevated avalanche danger. Blister Hill is too wide open, and the gully above it, which is climbed to continue up the route, has enough terrain risk I would be worried about something breaking up high and funneling onto me down lower.
The uphill after Blister Hill is intense. It was far better in the winter than in the summer, as the snow and ice were compacted over the numerous ankle twister rocks, removing that issue from the equation. It still wasn’t easy. I practiced my French technique, and took my time, resting often. I needed to maintain my reserves for the final push. Upon reaching the Balcony, I found two middle aged men, and two teenage boys, looking toward Broad Fork Twins. I crossed the saddle, and found a good spot under the couloir to take a break, eat some snacks, and break out my ice axe, putting my trekking poles onto my pack.
The party of four continued up behind and past me. One was adamant on making the summit. The two boys and the trailing fellow seemed far less excited. As they walked by I noticed the older men didn’t have any sort of traction devices, although it appeared the boys were so equipped. I began to climb the chute behind them after they had passed an appropriate distance, and I felt it safe. About 100 feet up the chute, they decided to turn around. This was a wise decision. The lead fellow glissaded down past me, and the other gentleman began to do the same. As the two boys came by I realized they only had one traction device per person. They had split a pair between them. Turning around was the correct decision, although I think it wasn’t a unanimous decision. I made sure they were okay, especially the boys, and proceeded up the route. I had no one in front of me, and no one behind.
The coulior makes a dogleg a little over halfway. Below the dogleg is an arete, off to climber’s left. To this point, after a long period of no snow, steps had been kicked into compact snow and the going was easy. Above the dogleg, however, was where I turned around on my summer trip. It looked innocuous enough in the winter. Very little rock was out, and it seemed to mostly be ice and snow. The sun was just beginning to warm the chute, shining brightly upon it. As I made my first moves into the fifteen or twenty feet of sketchy terrain, I realized it was more ice than snow, and there was very little rock to grab. I wasn’t concerned, as it was nothing worse than I had experienced at any point climbing in the Absarokas. I made sure my tool was secure, my feet were planted, and pulled through, dislodging some ice as I went. I observed I didn’t want to dally on the summit, as the route was going to deteriorate quickly with the warming weather, making the descent more difficult and dangerous.
After this short sketchy portion of the route, gaining the summit was easy. The path makes another dogleg. At that point, the main chute in passed, and it was an easy snow ladder to gain the summit, only a few more minutes. I met a party on top, a couple and another solo individual. We all took pictures, and had a few minutes on the summit, making small talk, before our conversation switched to the descent. All of us were concerned about making it down quickly, and safely. We agreed to head down together, if nothing else to make sure we all made it safely. I brought up the rear off the summit.
At the top of the chute, we met a young man wearing Sorrel packboots, standing off to the side. He seemed nonchalant, and unconcerned with the climb, and casually mentioned his partner had taken a forty foot fall. I made my way to the front of our party, and found the boy’s partner clinging to a rock outcropping to climber’s left of the “technical” section of the climb. I made my way down to him, and asked to help. At this point, he was set on proceeding up the mountain. I gave him my ice axe, and planted my feet very securely. I showed him how to get purchase with the axe, and swung him back over to the main route, where some icy steps had been cut. As he stepped onto the route, he slipped, and I caught him by his pack straps, and told him to step on my foot so he wouldn’t slip. He proceeded up the chute, and left my axe with a member of my impromptu party.
At this point, the “mountaineer” party and another gentleman had reached the bottom of the chute, and were beginning to climb. As my party made it down to me, I retrieved my axe and started down the worst of the sketchy part of the climb. The ice was delaminated from the rock. I gently swung my axe for purchase, hoping to avoid breaking huge chunks of ice onto the parties below me. After I was safe, I anchored myself as best I could, and helped the rest of my party down. A few more steps, and we were standing on the top of the arete. One of the gentlemen reached us when our party was half down this portion of the route, and was attempting to pass. He seemed irritated we were there, and was aggressive in his climbing, with people above him and below him, making his own way, stepping into the route, and off the route, occasionally pushing past people as he went.
Once we all reached the arete, we began the last of the downclimb of the snowfield. I asked my party if they knew how to self arrest with their trekking poles, and gave them some pointers, if they happened to slip. It was easy, but cautious going. The mountaineer party pulled off to the side as we were downclimbing, out of the way in case someone cut loose. They had two hikers behind them. One asked me what it was like up there, and I told her about the sketchy part of the climb, and to be careful. She seemed to be nervous about this portion of the climb, but continued up, following the other member of her party.
Our group stopped again at the Balcony, to take more photos and relax after our downclimb from the summit. I noticed off to the east that a relatively small avalanche had broken off in the shady area off Wildcat Ridge, and pointed it out to our party. The day had warmed significantly. I continued looking up the chute, following the progress of the parties heading to the summit. They began to cluster at the sketchy part of the climb. It appeared the party of two had intermixed with the mountaineer party, and were attempting to navigate the worst of the ice. I looked away for a second, then looked back, and watched the woman fall. She screamed, and began to slide. I lost her behind the arete, then she emerged, flat on her back, her poles out to the side. By luck, one of the mountaineer party below her stopped her slide. I could hear them talking, and her yelling back up to her party that she was okay. It appeared she stopped there, as the mountaineers continued to navigate the sketchy band.
Our party, knowing she was okay, began to descend from the Balcony. As we descended the gully toward Blister Hill, we began to notice small point release avalanches and snow balling down the chutes to climber’s right. In talking to these folks, and learning about them, I found that one of them had avalanche experience, and we began to note what we were observing. As we reached the top of Blister Hill, we noticed a section of snow that was hanging by a thread, waiting to slide. It wasn’t large, maybe ten feet across, but it had begun to slide, the snow wrinkling and bending on top of the consolidated snow below. We continued down Blister Hill.
We kept our crampons on until we reached the switchbacks on the lower portion of the trail. As we went down, we crossed numerous parties in t-shirts and jeans, asking how far it was to the summit, if they were almost there, and what they could expect. A few of these parties had nothing but the shirts on their backs. A couple seemed marginally better prepared. Many appeared to have no water, no jackets, and tennis shoes on their feet. These encounters are part of the reason for this writeup. While the chute was dramatic, the people who we encountered on the trail heading up were a concern, in my mind. I doubt that many made it as far as the Balcony, but the number of people thinking they were going to summit with no gear to speak of was astonishing. We made it back to our cars around one p.m., and parted ways, a successful, safe day.
I don’t intend to shame anyone in this writeup. I have been pondering how best to approach this day on the mountain since I got back. I saw a lot of behavior that wasn’t in line with my own personal ethics, and I try my best to avoid passing judgment. However, I think these observations might be beneficial for a party or a person attempting this summit, or any summit in the Wasatch Range. If subsequent parties can glean some information, some ideas of the challenge, a better understanding of the risk and commitment of climbing these peaks, I will consider this a success, and my purpose accomplished.
Mount Olympus isn’t an easy hike. When standing at the top of Blister Hill, it feels as though the Balcony is within reach. There is still a significant amount of climbing left, without the benefit of switchbacks. In this day and age, I think it is very easy to see pictures of people on the summit, or hear of people climbing these peaks, and assume that, “if they can do it, I can do it”. That may be the case, but simply because someone else has made the summit, doesn’t mean you can, or should. The individual needs to honestly assess their own comfort level with the realities of the condition of the mountain. This comes from experience, but also from avoiding the pitfall of continuing beyond the point of implosion. The first party I met in the chute did exactly this. They realized it was beyond the margin of error to continue on, and turned around. I wish more would have done the same. If it feels wrong, if the mountain is saying it is time to turn around, listen. All one needs to do is search, “Mount Olympus Utah Rescues”, to be bombarded with newspaper articles and reports of accidents on the mountain.
From my perspective, there are two important considerations to be made in attempting this summit, or any summit in the Wasatch. The first is difficult to quantify, but important to inform the latter. An honest assessment must be made of the objective. I don’t trust someone to tell me that something is easy, or straightforward. In all my years in the mountains, I have always determined that research before the trip, while very important, is secondary to on-the-ground information. Trip reports and guidebooks are only for reference, they don’t paint a complete picture. Difficulties may be understated (or, overstated, as I’m sure some would decide with this writeup), conditions may be less than ideal, or I may be of a different mindset than those who provide information on a climb. Regardless, pre-trip research is vitally important, to gain a cursory understanding of what can be expected.
Secondly, gear and supplies must be considered. With the information gained from research, and previous experience, a summit can be attempted with appropriate kit. For some, that might mean microspikes and hiking poles for Mount Olympus in February. For me, that meant crampons and an ice axe. Adequate water and food must be available. When hunger and thirst kick in, decision making becomes more difficult, leading to mistakes. I always set out for a trip with a “what if” mentality. What if I am longer than I anticipate? What if something happens I can’t foresee? What if something happens to someone else while I am up there? A line exists, of course, as preparing for every eventuality is impractical. With basics, many problems can be mitigated. At the bare minimum, appropriate clothing, food, water, a headlamp, first aid, a means of navigation, a means of communication, and special gear for the intended adventure are necessary.
Both considerations are made based on experience. Experience only comes from being out there and hiking the trails, gaining the summit, learning how the individual works in the mountains. What I need, what I find useful, may not be the same as the next person, in fact, it usually isn’t. I take what I know I will need, and assess my situation in the mountains constantly, ever mindful of changing conditions. I listen to myself and the mountains, and more often than not, will turn around before I reach an objective, keeping myself safe to make another attempt, at another time, when conditions and preparation are better suited to completing the goal.
The point to this long-winded writeup is rather simple. Be prepared for the objective. Make your own decisions. Play with a margin of safety. If a summit is lost, it can be attempted again. Respect the mountains, and be aware of what can and can’t be controlled. Pushing to the point of implosion, where rescue or injury are necessary, is not how anyone wants to end a trip into the mountains, or a continued exploration of wild places.
~JFL~