The O'Malley rideline to The Ramp, Ship Pass exitThe weather here in Alaska seems to finally be coming around this summer and my exploration of the Chugach front range peaks continues in earnest. These mountains are not particularly high nor rugged but what they lack in scale they make up for some of the most pleasant ridge cruising to be found anywhere. At times the surface upon which I'm traveling makes me laugh. I mean, it's like a groomed golf course up there sometimes. Even the scree fields are welded together by trim vegetation and soil. Almost embarrassing it's so easy. The rock, on the other hand, tips the scale far in the other direction, being loose, unpredictable and scary. Can't have everything, I guess.
My latest outing brought all these qualities to the fore in a five and a quarter hour push. The O'Malley ridge line is an obvious feature seen from town and a couple of popular trail heads above Anchorage. 
The whole enchilada - start (L) to finish (R)There are five peaks along it's logical length. Starting from Glen Alps parking lot, I dropped down into the Powerline drainage, crossed the stream on the well-trodden trail and headed up the O'Malley gully, a popular destination for hikers after work. It takes me under 30 minutes, 25 if I want to suffer, to get to the small saddle that marks the beginning of the ridge.
First on the menu is Little O'Malley, followed by False O'Malley and, then, O'Malley proper. I stood on the summit about 1 1/2 hours after leaving the car. So far, so good. Some running and easy scrambling in worsening weather. I was dressed to move fast but a glance deeper into the Chugach to the east revealed dark skies and snow squalls. Lovely. Freaking July in Alaska. Can't say I was really surprised. It was also howling, keeping me ducking off the ridge, happy to be in the steep gullies out of the wind.
In the choss maze below Hidden Peak looking back to O'MalleyHidden Peak was next. No real barriers to progress up to this point, aside from the chilly temps. I was in shorts, arm warmers, now pulled low over my hands like mittens, a wind breaker and a beanie. I wasn't shivering… yet. As I continued toward the termination of the ridge at the final summit, The Ramp, the terrain started getting trickier. The crest was not favorable so I dropped 50-100 feet off the south side and picked my way through choss-filled gullies.
Hidden LakeThings got more interesting when a snowy 50 degree couloir blocked my way. Not wanting to back track, I carefully kicked deep steps across the 20 foot gap. I plunged my fingers into the snow kidding myself they held some security. A slip would have been tragic. I made it comfortably to the other side only to find more precipitous terrain which brought me to a stand still. What I thought was going to be an easy ramp turned out to be a snow and water covered slab. I needed to contour or simply go back. I pushed forward.
The meat grinderVertical, heavily fractured rock loomed above me. Several snow covered ramps lay below. Directly above them was a steep, perhaps 70 degree rock face that led to easier ground. A fall here would lead to a 50 foot plunge to the sloping ledge and likely further down to my demise. The shivering started.
"S" Couloir, North Face Ptarmigan PeakNow, I've soloed quite a bit over the years. Not the Alex Honnold kind of thing but the more moderate sort, nothing over 5.8 but usually covering lots of ground. My favorite is the Grand Traverse in the Tetons. There's plenty of exposure there, but, for the most part, the rock is predictably good and I know it intimately, having guided and climbed thousands of pitches of it. This familiarity is safety when traveling ropeless. You simply know what to expect when you reach around blind corners in dicey situations. On this day, I couldn't claim such an advantage.
I didn't need to go far, perhaps 50 horizontal feet. The line of weakness was capped by a roof feature that looked like it could just fall off the cliffside any moment. Some of the foot holds on the slab below were covered with a spongy type of tundra vegetation common around here. On previous adventures this stuff seemed secure and typically covers a useable feature. I tip toed my way out onto these, leaning back as I negotiated the crux traverse under the roof. I got my feet onto good horizontals but couldn't boast the same for my hands. I groped around the corner, sweeping my hand up and down, desperately needing something to pull down on so I could make the next two moves and be done with the idiocy.
These are the moments that define the dark side of soloing. I hate them. The on-sight soloist hones his ability to quickly scan the terrain ahead and piece together the route. I do this by looking far ahead where I want to go and then quickly finding the path back to where I am feature by feature. It's like those maze puzzles you did as a kid. I was always good at those. This process feels similar, only scarier.
Typically, in similar situations, once I've committed to the line, I will my way through, convinced it goes. But once in awhile, a flash of doubt regurgitates into my throat, bitter and bile tasting. On this day, as I swept my hand up and down the unseen rock around the roof, I wanted to puke, then cry. The emotions of fear, anger, anxiety came quickly in rapid succession. More toxic thoughts sometimes come, too. On this day they were there. I realized that just because I wanted it to go - needed it to go - doesn't mean it would. And now, I didn't really want to go back to those mossy tufts on the slab. It was only a few moves. Fuck. For a moment, I played out the fall in my head, where I would land, the injuries, the aftermath. It was cold. I wouldn't survive the day out dressed like I was. It would take them at least a day to find me. I think I told someone where I was going.
I snapped back to the task of pulling this move. Reluctantly, I reached down for the undercling that taunted me. With thin feet and numb fingers, I didn't really want this hold. There wasn't a plan B or holding on if my feet popped. But this was it. Time to go all in. I wondered if I would just lever the washing machine size block off and everything - this nightmare, my life - would be over. I pushed my hips in tight to the rock, scooted my right foot down and over and matched feet again. And then, suddenly, I was back on easy ground. I giggled and then spit out the bile taste of fear, disgusted with myself for treading so close to the edge on this choss pile. No glory here.
And then I was traversing a mellow side hill, out of the gullies and heading for The Ramp, my fear seemingly blown away by the wind. 
Looking back from The Ramp
Ship Creek ValleyA final scramble to the summit above Ship Pass and I was done. The wind was pushy and the snow came in brief squalls. I turned my back and started down the loose trail. 
5 miles to the car.It was a straight shot down the broad valley where it joined Powerline and the road back to the car. The mindless plodding down the trail was a welcome contrast to the riveting concentration an hour before. Running felt light.
