Some people do brunch to reconnect. We, on the other hand, do multi-day bushwhacking scrambles with 30-pound packs and very few established trails. It’s just how we show love.
This trip was something of a reunion tour, since the last time our trio was together was during a seven-day ski masochism retreat over Christmas at Lizzie Lake. So naturally, we decided to celebrate by hauling overnight packs up Sloan Peak and beyond. Or as Alex called it: “just a little circumnavigation.”
Day 1: The Bushwhack Begins
We left the main Ault FSR, parked at the junction, and immediately warmed up with a “gentle” 1–2 km hike up an overgrown spur road (read: alder slapfest), before reaching a lovely clear-cut that smelled like chain oil and heartbreak.
From there, we bushwhacked to the NE ridge of Sloan Peak. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure of the plan, but Alex seemed confident and Ben wasn’t panicking, so I just kept walking uphill and tried to pretend I was having fun.
The scramble up Sloan was actually quite enjoyable, rock-solid, scenic, and with just one “oh-no” moment, where I had to lower my pack down a short downclimb so it wouldn’t drag me off the mountain like an eager golden retriever. Summit views were glorious, even if I was sweating beef jerky brine by then.
The South face descent of Sloan was less “trail” and more “choose your own gully and pray.” We eventually found the right one, mostly by process of elimination and not falling off any cliffs.
Camp: Upper Ault Lake
We pitched camp by Upper Ault Lake, a beautiful spot if you ignore the fact that the mosquitos were conducting an airstrike campaign. We rehydrated (freeze-dried everything), swapped stories, and tried not to think about how much further Alex wanted to go.
Day 2: A Peak Too Far
The next morning, we set off towards Land Peak via the East Ridge. Spirits were high until we encountered a massive, impassable gap just below the summit. There was no safe way across, unless you were born a goat or raised by Cliffhanger-era Sylvester Stallone.
Speaking of the past, we did find an old note tucked on the ridge, dated 1949 by Cliff Fenner, an absolutely amazing piece of mountain history, and also proof that someone else once thought, “Yeah, this route looks doable”... and then probably also turned around.
With Land Peak vetoed by the terrain gods, we regrouped, made our way to Green Mountain, and then began the final descent into the bushwhack abyss.
The Exit
The return to the car involved light bush thrashing, moderate swearing, and heavy dreams of tacos. Ben may have aged five years. I lost count of how many small twigs I pulled from my socks. Alex, as usual, looked like he was just getting warmed up.
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