Preface

As long as I’ve been a climber, the alpine has been my true love. Ironically, since moving to the Yukon, my time in the alpine has diminished quite a bit. Established alpine rock climbs are incredibly rare here. In part because of the small climbing community in the region. But I would argue it’s primarily due to the lack of easily accessible & good quality rock in the alpine. Far out in the backcountry, plums exist. Like Radelet or Ark Mountain. These areas require arduous hikes or expensive motorized transport, not to mention significant time commitment during a very short climbing season. Furthermore, unless you’re an insanely bold superclimber, you will often want some amount of bolt protection on these routes. Due to the fact that sustained, solid crack systems are also very rare. This creates another layer of barriers – in terms of finances, weight, and skills – to our small community establishing the kind of technical alpine adventures I crave. 

On a personal note, I’ve found my ability to be confident approaching alpine rock diminished as well. Climbing does not come naturally to me, even though it’s one of my passions. I’ve never been an athlete – saddled with asthma, flat feet, and mostly terrible genes. This has been exacerbated by a mystery condition affecting my right leg and lower back that has slowly escalated over the years, with no relief being offered by the many physios and doctors I’ve seen thus far. In addition to my physical struggles, I’ve always been an incredibly anxious and cautious person. I have to work very hard to feel comfortable in these environments. To be at my best, I need a constant stream of experiences that allow me to slowly build my tolerance to the fear-inducing nature of these activities. Something that was much easier for me to accomplish when I lived in the Rockies. I’m sure that most of these things are relatable to the average climber. We all struggle with injury, physical tolls and the inherent fears that come with climbing. These struggles are amplified in a remote, sparsely populated region that has extremely limited information on its mountains, adding to the fears of the unknown and a simply higher cost of entry in terms of risk and physicality.

This summer, I found myself a bit disappointed in my inability to actually pull off any successful alpine rock climbs, despite the attempts I made. Regardless, I got to spend time with good friends in some of the most beautiful areas of the region. I have plans to attempt (or re-attempt) the climbs discussed here in the future. But my hope in sharing this is to help expand the knowledge base in which our community can pull from to create these kinds of amazing experiences that have been so formative to my life and others. 

The Northern Boundary Range

The Pacific Coast Mountains stretch up the western coast of North America from Mexico to Alaska. The Boundary Range is a particular section of these mountains that, somewhat intuitively, makes up the peaks that criss-cross the American-Canadian border, starting from the southern tip of the Alaskan panhandle and up into southern Yukon. 

Since moving to Whitehorse in 2021, I’ve been particularly drawn to these mountains for several reasons:

– Roads cutting through both Haines and White Pass provide relatively easy access from Whitehorse.

– There is a significant amount of granitic rock. Even though the vast majority of it is total choss, there is a lot of promise for solid rock with climbing potential on (mostly) traditional gear.

– For the region, there is a relatively deep climbing history. Established routes on Ark Mountain, Kooshdakha Spire, Rapa Nui, Pyramid Peak, Mt Emmerich, Radelet and the Sawtooths show that amongst the vast sea of choss there are worthwhile climbing adventures to be had.

– The aesthetic of the peaks tickles my brain. Hikers seem to be more drawn to Kluane, for instance, but nowhere in the region is there such a vast vista of spikey, glaciated peaks with potential for technical climbing as this area.

In the summer of 2026, I set the goal of finally getting to two climbs on my tick-list: Kelsall Subpeak and the First Sawtooth in White Pass. 

Mount Kelsall

Mt Kelsall is an obvious prominent massif on the east side of the Haines Highway, seen as you head toward the eponymous Haines Pass. Like many peaks in the area, it has a broad flat summit plateau with various connecting ridges. During my travels through the area, I had taken some photos of its surrounding sub-peaks and ridges, wondering if there was any opportunity for alpine rock climbing. I later saw a photo on Zach Clanton’s social media of a jagged ridgeline and another with a large lake in the back, which allowed me to pinpoint the location as Mt Kelsall. I reached out to get some more information on it and he told me there was a route up the subpeak known as ‘Honeymoon Arete’ which went at a very modest grade of 5.6, originally climbed by some folks out of Haines. He had attempted it in 2018 but was turned around by a snowstorm after reaching the base of the peak.

Some time later, I was writing my blog post ‘Northern Alpine’ and naturally was going to mention Kelsall. When googling to find some photos to share, I was surprised to see a MountainProject page pop up for the route Honeymoon Arete. It was only posted a few months earlier. I was pretty floored to see what was a highly obscure route posted at such an opportune time. I reached out to the author, Brennan Whitermore, to get some more information. Turns out he had done a repeat ascent with the First Ascensionist 15 years earlier and had randomly decided it was a route that should be shared, given its high quality in a region lacking in such climbs. This sudden influx of information skyrocketed the route to the top of my list. But it wasn’t until this summer I was actually able to make an attempt.

Though the peak is what I would call ‘relatively’ accessible, it’s still a bit of a mission. Firstly, you ideally have some sort of high clearance vehicle that can make the very rough road down to the shores of Kelsall Lake. Then, you need a boat to make the 5km paddle to the initial slopes of the peak, lest you want to bushwhack there. From the landing, it is then a 3km hike up into the alpine where the recommended camp is, through some of the most heinous bushwhacking I’ve ever experienced, in what can only be described as an alpine jungle. Thankfully, my friend Martin has both a canoe and truck that made this feasible. On July 17th, we started the paddle with a white-cap producing cross wind. We made it to the chosen landing in about an hour and headed up into the jungle, finding only temporary relief in short-lived meadows of chest high grass between the dense patches of alder. We made it to camp in three sweat-inducing, bug-slapping hours of hiking. 

The camp is about as idyllic as it gets, you have an easy water source with the creek flowing down from the mountain’s glacier right next to you. There are a number of nice flat spots on alpine moss with boulders all around. There are incredible views toward Kelsall Lake and the St. Elias Mountains to the south and the epic glacial cirques of Kelsall towering above you to the North. The sharp ridge of the ‘Honeymoon Arete’ loomed above and looked like a simple hike from here. 

We made a gameplan for the next day, we’d hike the approach to get a feel for it and stash some gear for our planned summit push on day three. We had our dinner and went to bed early. The forecast had called for a few hours of rain overnight, it was a fair bit more than expected but by wake up time it was over. We got up slowly, not in a rush as clouds still swirled over the cirque. Eventually, we were on our way toward the subpeak, with half of the trip’s ropes and rack ready to stash high.

Prior to the weekend, I was doing my usual pre-trip planning. Inspecting Google Earth and the few photos I had from Zach and Brennon. Two things made me nervous. First, Brennon described a hike off descent ‘to the NW’. There was no obvious hike off visible in any of the images and the satellite imagery did not show anything that looked like an easy hike off. I made my best guess, hiking south off a col to the NW of the subpeak, and got confirmation from Brennon that was what he was talking about, but I still felt some uncertainty. Second, comparing the photos of the ridge from both Zach and Brennon, it appeared as if there was some major rockfall at the portion of the ridge where it began to steepen. It was hard to tell, as Brennon’s 15 year old photos were not exactly great quality. But it seemed clear to me that something had fallen out. This was the biggest area of concern I had, as it would directly affect the route, so I was eager to take a look at it in real life and the primary purpose for us doing this initial scouting hike.

The path up to the subpeak takes you past a steep, glaciated cirque below the NW face of the main peak of Kelsall, up over the edge of an old moraine, and down into a separate cirque where you then head east up a relatively small arm of the Kelsall glacier to the base of the route. From camp, we hiked north and boulder hopped across the creek, aiming for the easiest route up the bulging terminus of the old moraine. The day was characterized by a significant amount of travel on talus and boulders, making the hike often precarious and slow. Even though I have spent a lot of time in this kind of terrain, nowhere do I get as nervous about it as this part of the world. With technical rescue capabilities basically non-existent outside of Kluane, your only real hope if you break an ankle after a boulder shifts under your weight is somehow limping your way down tough terrain to somewhere a helicopter can reasonably land. 

We contoured up the edge of the moraine, aiming for a bench that would take us up and over onto the protruding arm of the glacier. We were treated to a mountain goat traipsing under the west face of Kelsall. Seeing any large mammal in the Yukon is always a treat. Especially goats, which themselves are relatively rare here. Once we reached the bench, we stopped at a small snow slope for Martin to practice some self-arrest. He had never been on a glacier and we had spent the preceding weeks training him on rock and glacier rescue techniques, but had not had the chance to hone crampon and ice axe skills on actual snow. 

Once we crested over the moraine, I was offered the first view of the proposed descent and my stomach immediately dropped. It looked terrible. Steep, broken slabs of granite sprinkled with talus. It looked like incredibly sketchy and loose 4th class. Often times in the mountains, looks are deceiving. I’ve found myself both over and underestimating terrain often. I hoped that in this case I was overestimating, but the idea of having to come down that after a long day of hiking and climbing was intimidating. My concerns at the start of the trip did not feel assuaged. On top of that, the hike was much more arduous and time consuming than I had initially expected based on the short description provided. The route was only four, easy graded pitches. This, coupled with my misinterpretations of the approach and descent, set an expectation for a relatively low commitment alpine climb, but that perspective was quickly unravelling. 

We continued our trudge up the small glacier, Google Earth makes it appear quite low angle, which I suppose it is. But as a tired hiker, it still felt like a chore. Initially, we did this unroped, as the uniform shape of the icefield did not present any evidence of crevassing, such as open sections or slumping. But some probing midway up presented the sensation of open space, so we scrambled onto the rocky ridge which made up the top of the first cirque seen from camp, with the idea to rope up for the final short section of glacier. Better safe than sorry. The view from here was incredible. The rocky buttresses that made up the cirque were mostly choss, but some potentially interesting lines presented themselves. We also finally got a great view of the true summit of Kelsall, a glaciated dome at the apex of several ridges. The NW ridge, which we were essentially at the base of, showed a knife edge section of steep snow before reaching the corniced summit. Another example of hard to process terrain. How steep was it really? Would it require technical tools? Snow, ice or rock protection? Or is it a relatively simple, but exposed jaunt? A question for another time. 

The interesting part of the mountain is that the main peak does not have any record of ascent, though I’ve found references to various attempts. Brennon confirmed that he has not heard of anyone summiting, though he knows skiers who have tried. I’ve also seen a MIN by skiers who turned back from the summit at the knife ridge. Eliel told me he had attempted the obvious SW ridge, seen from the highway, with a client but had to turn around when they became uncomfortable with the technical nature of the upper ridge. He stated one would need to rappel down into a large notch before climbing back up toward the summit, complicating the otherwise straightforward looking path. By all means though, it looks like a relatively moderate mountaineering summit, that would almost certainly have many routes if it was located further south. It’s hard to believe it has never seen a climber on top, but it’s quite possible that is actually the case.

We roped up and made the final traverse to the base of the now looming Kelsall Subpeak. The irony of the name is it really appears to be a subpeak of the Mt Reilly massif. The conditions had improved significantly since the morning and the views were stunning, if not a little windy. After scrambling up to the small rocky islands sticking out of the glacier, we got our first real look at the route. Something that bothered me about the photos I had seen previously was how hard it was to tell the scale. It looked huge in the photos, but I knew it was only ~150m in length. Overall, the first section of the ridge looked incredibly manageable, if not quite loose. But this is terrain I’m comfortable on. The rest of it though, while not that long, was impressively steep and exposed. It was hard to imagine the route staying at the proposed grade of 5.6. The rock quality was also not quite as good as it looked in the photos. The East face, which the route ended up on often, has this thick orangey brown patina which was clearly peeling off, revealing unweathered rock below. Though there were many cracks that looked like they would take gear, feeling around I could easily find detached chunks ready to rip out with human force. Not to be discouraging though, even by many alpine standards, the rock was still good. Just not as good as I had initially thought it would be. 

We got our first good look at the rockfall as well. Once again, my concerns were not diminished. It was hard to tell if there was an easy, protectable bypass. Following the line of the original route, there looked to be a steep section of blank rock with a thin crack. Hard to tell if it would take gear, except perhaps pitons, which we did not have. It also didn’t look easy. A traverse to the right did not look simple and did not seem to have much protection either. A potential option would be a whole new first pitch start, beginning from the east side of the subpeak lower down on the glacier.

At this point, it had taken us around 4 hours just to reach the base. Far more time and energy than I had expected, with both of my major concerns appearing to be affirmed. There were certainly solutions to these issues. But I was discouraged and did not feel mentally or physically prepared to make the commitment to head up the route the next day. We chatted and made the decision not to pursue it, as much as it pained us. I had brought my drone in hopes of capturing images of other subpeaks on the massif that looked interesting and I was able to get some great shots. I took some photos of the arete and another very cool looking subpeak to the east. The latter had caught my eye from its blurry shape on Google Earth and photos from Paul Christensen’s blog post on his Haines Pass to Wheaton Valley traverse. It looked like high quality, dark granite with potential for moderate ridge lines off the glacier. Following our path as the initial approach to it does not look ideal though, it would require traversing the main part of the Kelsall Glacier, travelling parallel to some large crevasses. A camp on the east-side, similar to where Paul was, looked ideal if one wanted to approach that particular objective.

Despite the disappointment of our decision, I felt a massive weight lift off my chest. I’d felt the anxiety build as my red flags were vindicated. As I mentioned in the preface, I’ve struggled with this anxiety my whole climbing career. My usual approach has been to ignore it, just do the thing making me anxious, usually to positive results and inevitably raising the bar to what could actually make me anxious in the first place. It felt pretty damn relieving for once to just bail. Though we ultimately failed our goal, I was happy to reveal a little bit more information about this amazing area.

After making it out, I reached out to Brennon to let him know the results of our trip, and hoped to get some more insight into the rockfall and descent. Retroactively looking at the drone photos, we noticed that there was an obvious bail anchor at the base of the rock scar. There was also significant loose rock on a ledge just above. It looks like someone had attempted the route since it had occurred and turned back, though Brennon had not heard of anyone doing so. I asked what he thinks a proper solution to the rockfall might be. Ideally, it can be protected naturally and climbed at a moderate grade. But what if it can’t? Though pitons have their place, I’m not a big fan of in-situ pitons for these types of routes. They eventually become dangerous time bombs. I’d rather place a bolt that has longevity as a piece of protection. Though Brennon wasn’t the FA, he was the closest person to them. He’d also already suggested a bolt for one of the upper anchors, as it had limited options for good pieces (we had brought a hand-drill and a bolt for this). He stated that he thinks the reasonable approach would be to try it on clean gear first then, if necessary, a bolt would indeed be preferable to pitons, if a clean bypass could not be easily undergone. This might include considering a direct option from the base of the East face. He also stated bolting belay anchors on the route would be fine in the future.

I hope to return in the future, with a modified plan and mindset:

– Despite the short and moderate nature of the route, enter the trip with a much more committed mindset.

– Better fitness. Hiking has always been my crux and I did not do enough to prepare my body, especially with my low expectations of the actual demand. 

– Bring the power drill and be prepared to use it as discussed above. Hand-drills suck and take ridiculous amounts of time in hard granite. It may not be necessary in the end but better to bring it and not need it, than need it and not bring it.

– Consider alternative descents.

– There is a steep snow slope on the NE side that might be reasonable and drop you down on the glacier fairly close to the base of the route.

– There also appears to be a relatively moderate snow slope to the north of the col where the described descent is, this would require you to backtrack up the main glacier back to the base of the route, which would be tedious at the end of the long day, but doable.

– Rappel from the summit down the east face. Either leaving behind pro or bolted anchors. It would only be about 2-3 full length raps and would drop you off closer to the base. But has a high commitment factor, especially if no drill is brought.

– Consider pushing camp up higher to reduce the approach on summit day, though once you pass the first cirque, options for flat campsites with water are non-existent (unless you want to camp on the glacier)

This area is incredibly special. It is one of the few zones around with a wealth of opportunity for all kinds of mountaineering adventures. It would be amazing to see it develop into a zone that allows Yukon alpinists to cut their teeth on technical alpine terrain. I would love to find volunteers to help cut a rudimentary trail through the alpine jungle to the first camp, this would open the massif up to people without requiring a high-clearance vehicle and a canoe. Anyone with a sedan and a bike can make it down to the shores of the lake easily. Then the initial approach to camp would be a modest 5.5km and 350m elevation gain, leaving you significantly less exhausted than bashing through the dense, humid bush. 

The Sawtooths

The Sawtooths are a series of jagged peaks on the Alaskan side of White Pass. Anyone who has hiked or skied in the area has had their eyes drawn to them. They form a jagged ridge breaking west off the peaks of the Laughton Glacier. Some maps have the whole massif labelled as the ‘Sawtooth Range’, but when I speak of them, I’m referencing the singular ridge in the non-glaciated cirque to the west of Laughton. 

This zone has a history of alpinism. The couloirs between the peaks feature in Claude Vallier’s backcountry skiing guide and see at least a few skiers every season. Paul Christensen, John Simpson, and others climbed a number of routes on the peaks via their ridges back in the 1980s. 

The image above shows two of these routes. Another route was climbed on the ‘First Sawtooth’, supposedly a line that was mostly 4th class and a single pitch of ‘mid-fifth’. I have seen reports from other climbers in the modern day going up this route as well. Paul described the routes pictured here:

Going left is spire 2 and 3 respectively. Both had nice buttress routes. Spire 3 was descended via 3/2 couloir Spire 2 was then traversed to spire 1. The big prize was/is the citadel like feature right behind John Simpsons head. That was on the hit list but bad weather moved in (we had 3 beauty days) and that was that. The big blocky thing back and left was ascended on another trip from the Laughton glacier. Fun outing. Great view. God knows what the Laughton glacier is like now to get up. 

The First Sawtooth seemed like a great, easy route to do and get a feel for the area before trying some of the bigger lines, especially given the fact that it had since been repeated. The access is also relatively easy for the area. From the South Klondike Highway, you walk down to the Alaska Telephone & Power hydrofacility on the Skagway River. This facility is fed by a penstock rising up to the Goat Lake reservoir ~600m above. To reach the Sawtooths, you cross the Skagway River via the penstock then follow its right-of-way up to the lake. I am unsure of the legality of this, but in speaking to others, I’ve been told AP&T does not seem to care. Many skiers and hikers have made the crossing without incident. However, you must also cross the White Pass & Yukon Railroad. Which is indeed illegal. 

WP&YR have explicitly refused to give recreationists permission to cross the railroad. Refusing any sort of compromise when I’ve reached out. They have even gone as far as to lobby at the Union of BC Municipalities against pro-recreationist motions regarding access across railroads. Basing their arguments on highly exaggerated concerns of safety. 

White Pass Yukon Route Railway…realizes that you are seeking this program in an attempt to encourage healthy lifestyles and capitalize on environmental benefits, but this initiative does not come without risks. Your resolution stipulates that trails along rights of way should be developed so as not to cause significant conflicts and where this can be done safely; however, it should be noted that fatalities and serious injury exist throughout history in situations where people come in conflict with trains. Encouraging people to travel along railway rights of way is encouraging unsafe conditions. Who will pay for the dramatic cost increase in our liability premiums should an accident result as a result of this initiative? Who will pay for the cost of fencing, signage and monitoring? On the return trip to sea level from the top of the White Pass, our trains are virtually silent since they are travelling down slope causing them to appear without notice around a bend, and being unable to stop suddenly, cause injury to unwary hikers. This is a major concern for White Pass Yukon Route Railway and should be noted in further discussions concerning the resolution.

I cannot overstate my disdain for this American corporation attempting to monopolize recreational access to the entire eastern side of White Pass to the benefit of their shareholders and the fat tourists who don’t give a shit about the locals. All because the government was short-sighted in granting the railroad fee-simple ownership of the land under the line, rather than a lease, over a hundred years ago. Of course, this will never actually stop people from ignoring their ludicrous complaints and safely crossing the railroad at all times of the year. Recreationists co-exist with active rail corridors all across the US and Canada. It’s almost like we were all taught as kids to look both ways. But it is technically illegal. So be aware. 

Rob and I planned to climb the First Sawtooth on the Labour Day weekend, doing it as an overnight, though I think it’s definitely a doable day trip. But unfortunately, he is an Australian. An Australian that did not double check the visa requirements for his entry into the US, so we were turned around at the border. We went home and he filed for the right visa and we hoped it would be approved in time to try again the next day. Unfortunately, it was not, so we pivoted.

The Shark Fin

The Shark Fin is a relatively well known alpine scramble in White Pass, thanks to its entry on Yukon Hiking. It was one of the many peaks on my list to check out because it has a number of interesting features on both its North and South aspects. Steep ridges and faces with what appears to be uncharacteristically good rock for the area. I’ve stared at it many times when recreating in the pass. Wondering what these features looked like up close. Though it’s done fairly often, high quality photos online are sparse. I figured I would get in there one day with the explicit objective to fly the drone around these features, not necessarily to do the full hike, but we were craving a summit.

To access the hike, you start with a 3km paddle down Bernard Lake, putting in right before the Canadian Customs office. Yukon Hiking stated that the route should take around 8.5 hours roundtrip, not including the paddling, and has some serious bushwhacking. It suggests parties might want to camp at the shore of the lake. We ended up doing the whole thing 8.5 hours car-to-car and found what little bushwhacking there was to be incredibly tame. We had the benefit of the Yukon Hiking track, but to be honest, we only used it a few times to ensure we were trending in the right direction. If someone wanted to do this as an overnight, my recommendation would be to plan to set-up camp higher up toward the base of the mountain. There is ample opportunities for flat spots with water until you are on the southern talus fields.

From the end of the lake, we scrambled up near the cliff band seen there, then made our way toward the peak in a sort of rising traverse to the right. As Yukon Hiking states, it is best to stay up on the rocky ridges as often as you can. But you will be forced to bash your way through some krummholz or subalpine fir on occasion. However, for anyone who has bushwhacked in the Yukon’s dense spruce forests, this should be child’s play.

After the initial ridge, following some game trails, we found ourselves in a boulder-filled gully with a cliff band. We found our way up the easiest section of this, somewhere to the right, then a little bit of bushwhacking to reach some open terrain up on the rocky ridge of this particular hill. From there we could see a slope covered in tall fir trees is all that stood between us and the open alpine meadows that would be easy travel. This is where I can see bushwhacking being challenging, but we were able to find openings that provided easy travel. From there, it was smooth sailing above treeline.

We followed the rocky ridges to the base of the peak, finding ourselves above a canyon with another boulder filled gully. We found a game trail that dropped into here, then picked our way up moss covered benches near a beautiful creek falling down from the south aspect of the mountain. Eventually, the moss disappeared, and gave way to a slowly steepening boulder field. Before cresting out on a flat shoulder, a short section of loose class 3 scrambling presented itself. Here we donned our helmets and weaved around cliff-bands, taking turns scrambling up loose gullies to avoid hitting each other with falling rocks. It’s not the most exposed terrain. But the wrong choice of foot or handhold could certainly result in injury in a hard to rescue position. Looking at Google Earth, it’s possible traversing far right would provide a lower angle line up the crest. However, the scrambling is quite fun and short-lived. Once topping out on this section, the terrain eases off to a wide, gently sloping summit plateau. We trudged our way up undulating talus slopes, topping out on a false peak, before the final stretch to the main summit.

I’ve already stated that I’m a bit biased to these particular mountains. But the surroundings of the Shark Fin provided what I would say is easily the most stunning view of any summit I’ve been on in the Yukon and surrounding areas. Even Radelet, in my opinion. The day was beautiful and clear, albeit incredibly windy, and we found ourselves surrounded by a sea of peaks that would fit in with the Cascades. Unfortunately, for a climber, the fact that the majority of these epic peaks are crumbling choss fests mutes the views somewhat. But the sheer scale of the potential is still incredibly exciting.

I was particularly excited about what I was seeing on the Shark Fin itself. The ridges and faces I saw from afar looked even better in person and were some of the best rock I’ve seen in the area. Interestingly enough, the massif is actually somewhat geologically unique to the surrounding formation. While most of the pass is granite or granodiorite formed in the Early Eocene (39-47 million years ago), the Shark Fin is a relatively isolated section of Skagway Tonalite formed earlier in the Eocene period. I’m not sure why, but something about this formation has created steep features with relatively solid rock. Compared to the surrounding summits, which look built up of decaying rock and show signs of constant shedding. 

The epic north face seen in most people’s pictures is certainly cool, but it looks like a dangerous combo of steep climbing and slightly too chossy rock. Also on the north side of the peak is an interesting looking ridge that rises up to the sub-summit plateau. Though, from above, it was obvious there were a lot of large loose blocks resting on the ridge’s ledges, it certainly looked solid enough with easy climbing. I would imagine it’s something similar to the ridges on Caribou’s south face. Which is to say, a fuck load of chossy 4th class, but good enough to make a worthwhile outing. 

The real gem is the south face, with an incredible sweep of solid looking slabs. Though natural crack systems and traditionally protectable features seem only interspersed on the face, it looks like it offers good climbing in an amazing setting, especially if approached in a modern style with a mix of traditional and bolt protected climbing. This face was one of the most obvious features from afar, but I was unsure if the approach to its base would be feasible. From below, it looks like steep, dirty terrain. But from above, it looks like relatively low angle benches of moss covered slabs, which likely has some sort of zig-zaggy but doable line. In addition, similar to the north side of the mountain, there were a number of ridges rising up just below the main summit. The closest one looked like it offered good rock, especially compared to the northern ridge, potentially at an easy enough grade where bolts wouldn’t be necessary. 

Unfortunately, the wind was far too strong to fly the drone and get better images of these features. But it was a very strong consolation prize for not being able to do the First Sawtooth this season. The hike, the views, the company, and the conclusion of my scouting all made for a very worthwhile outing. 

Though I failed to get up any real technical summits this season, the experiences I had trying have me even more stoked for future summers, and for the future of alpine rock climbing in the Yukon.