Mount Washington Winter Trip Report

I. Planning and Background

I always wanted to go up to Mount Washington's eastern ravines for a few days of both climbing and skiing. I'd done one or the other, but not really both. If we climbed, it was to climb; if we skied, any climbing was in the service of that.

So this December I hatched a plan to head up and do both, and my 18‑year‑old son Tobias was my partner. He'd been there before, skiing the lower sections of Hillman's Highway and climbing it one year when the neve was great for climbing to the top but not yet skiable.

We had both seen the spring circus, which is rightly notorious for human frailty and foolishness. We enjoyed the cold‑weather camping at Hermit Lake, which does not attract too many others despite the area’s heavy traffic. And we wanted more.

Caveat emptor.

II. Approach to Hermit Lake

The day after Christmas we drove up from Brooklyn early, arriving at Pinkham Notch just after noon. Knowing the weather was supposed to be variable—even by the standards of the area—we left our wiper blades up.

We shouldered 60‑pound packs with camping, ice climbing, and skiing kit, plus 4–5 days of food and fuel. We managed the hike of a couple of miles and less than a couple thousand feet of gain and made camp without much fuss, except for the chill. That night the thermometer registered a low of 4°F, but we wanted for nothing, stayed warm, and slept a dozen hours.

III. Into Huntington Ravine

We woke about an hour before dawn at 6. The cold slowed us down, and by 8 we set out for Huntington Ravine.

About five minutes after leaving the lean‑to, we realized we were going nowhere fast in thigh‑deep snow, so we returned for our skis. Things moved faster then, and we covered the mile or so between the ravines (Hermit Lake sits below Tuckerman’s).

We wanted to climb ice, since screws were the only protection we had. Odell’s and Pinnacle Gully—grade 2–3 classics offering 2–4 pitches of alpine ice—were the obvious targets.

IV. Skinning and Climbing Odell’s

We skinned high into Huntington with Toby leading. A snowshoer and another climber trailed us; the snowshoer headed to Central Gully, which we had considered for descent.

Where hermit pines gave way to scrub bushes, we stowed our skis. I thought I made a waypoint on my GPS. Toby was using his watch and I my phone as navigation aids, having unwisely left the map at camp.

We booted to the bottom of Odell’s. Conditions looked decent: no open water, solid snow and ice, roughly 700 feet of climbing followed by about 500 more to the Alpine Garden.

We started climbing around 10. Over the next 4–5 pitches, progress was slow but steady. A few screws protected modest Grade‑3 bulges; only one belay relied on screws. Others were shrubs, snow seats, or a mix.

We topped out around 2:20. The sun hit us for the first time, lifting our spirits. It was Toby’s first true technical alpine route—he even led a pitch or two. Tired and cold, we prepared to descend.

V. Assessing Descent Options

We followed cairns to locate the Huntington Ravine Trail, roughly aligned with Central Gully.

I had descended Central two decades earlier, mid‑winter, with Will Mayo, after climbing Black Dike and Fafnir in a morning. Will suggested Central—“it sets up nicely”—and he was right.

This time, though, there was considerable snow but not enough to fill Central. We followed markers a few hundred feet down. The trail is considered the most challenging eastern approach to the summit, and the iced‑over steps made that obvious.

Left of us lay Diagonal Gully—simpler at the top, yet guarded by a long ice bulge at the bottom. We couldn’t see the bulge, only the snow fan below, and optimistically wondered if we could sneak around it.

We weighed hiking back up to Lion Head, then returning for skis in deep snow. Instead, we headed down Diagonal. The couloir felt well‑consolidated: loose but not too loose, with firm footing and axe placements.

VI. Rappels and a Difficult Descent

After 400–500 feet we reached the rollover above the ice cliffs and evaluated options. To the right, indistinct lines trended toward Yale Gully. Left, a steep scruffy gully.

Toby spotted a small but sturdy tree—about four inches thick. We slung it and built our first 100‑foot rappel with our single rope.

Descending, I faced two choices: get onto the ice and rappel off screws for an unknown distance, or traverse left, which I did. A first screw hit snice and didn’t bite, but two better placements higher up allowed me to equalize an anchor and bring Toby down.

Dusk was coming fast. We donned headlamps and set a second rappel. Toby pointed out a patch of snow high and left that could spit us onto the snowfields. I stomped a platform and brought him down. One of my gloves—leashed—still managed to vanish into the darkness.

We downclimbed another hundred feet to the alpine brush. Toby trended unerringly toward our ski cache—critical, because the waypoint I thought I’d set wasn’t there. Exhausted, we paused, then pushed on.

A tough descent led through creek crossings and onto the cat tracks by the Albert Dow memorial rescue cache. A GPS error led us briefly astray; Toby recognized it and we reversed painfully. Eventually we reached Hermit Lake, refilled water, and collapsed at camp feeling lucky.

VII. Rest Day and Weather Trouble

The next day was a rest—or “spa”—day. We slept in. Toby might not have risen at 8 had I not gotten up to enjoy the warming morning. We ate and drank aggressively to fend off cramps.

At the caretaker’s porch, Sunday crowds watched skiers drop the Tucks headwall. We had mild FOMO, but no actual desire to ski on our battered legs.

Weather forecasts shifted rapidly—from promised heavy snow to freezing sleet and rain. Tuesday called for 100‑mph winds.

VIII. Meeting with Blake and Heading to the Gulf of Slides

We planned to meet Blake Keogh, a respected local guide, at 8 a.m. Rain started at 2 a.m., with winds building. Dawn brought classic New England misery.

We broke camp—those century‑mark winds didn’t feel like the way to end a wet day—and met Blake, who arrived soaked but positive.

We headed a short distance down the Sherburne Trail, found the entrance to the Graham Trail (marked by rusty tin can bottoms on birches), and contoured south toward the Gulf of Slides. We cached big packs, skinned into fragrant pines, and enjoyed the sheltered skinning after so much alpine exposure.

A recent D3 avalanche had ripped through Gully #1. As we approached through forest to the debris, Blake reminded us we were in avalanche terrain—though once we emerged the snapped trees made that clear.

IX. Booting Up and Skiing Down

We reached the main gully, donned crampons, stowed skis, and started boot‑packing. About 1,000 feet up, we discussed descent lines. Blake recommended a line that skirted below the crown and avoided the ice cliff.

We transitioned near the crown. I was slow—still wearing crampons, skins still on—and wind made everything harder. Eventually, we were ready.

Blake dropped first, radioed back, Toby followed, then me. The snow skied well despite torrential conditions. But it was clear that with rising winds and dropping temperatures, ice was coming.

We reached the debris fan. Blake suggested another lap; I throat‑slashed my veto. My legs were thinking about the ski out with 60‑pound packs. Blake reiterated a theme: avalanche hazards mattered, and those proved manageable that day, but this day the weather governed everything.

X. The Exit and Debrief

We whipped down the trail, wrapped around to the traverse low point, skinned back for our packs, and descended the Sherbie. Heavy packs made it deliberate, but still enjoyable. Warm temps softened the ice patches.

The parking lot—sand‑covered glaze—was the technical crux of the day. We tiptoed around a backhoe and stowed soaked gear before heading into Pinkham Notch for a debrief. It’s a ritual I plan to repeat.

Blake answered questions and unpacked decisions. We discussed future options—the Great Gulf, Owens, and beyond. Despite the freezing rain and soaked layers, we felt grounded and content. Toby and I knew we’d found our East Coast ski mentor.

XI. Reflections on Decision Making

I’m not happy with my decision‑making on the Odell’s descent. The climb was fine, if late, but the descent down an unclear, risky route was not the right call.

Toby apologized for the gear we abandoned; I told him it was the least of my concerns. He was rock‑solid all day—up and down—helping at key moments and demonstrating the makings of a strong alpinist.

In retrospect, we should have dropped skis at Lion Head and taken the known descent. It might have cost us the climb, but I’ve descended Lion Head in the dark before; we likely could have handled a bit more delay. Starting earlier would also have helped.

Once engaged in the descent, though, I stand by each tactical decision. Toby handled 400+ feet of no‑fall downclimbing with composure. When we became cliffed, he kept searching for solutions; one worked. Later, he caught a route‑finding error when it mattered most. Most importantly, he never quit—critical when it’s freezing and you’re out of food and water.

We did what we could with the situation we created. I’m content with the learning and with the calm we maintained under stress. And it made skiing with a guide—even in freezing rain in an avy path—deeply enjoyable.