From Sea to Summit and Back Again
An adventurous tale of sea kayaking and ski mountaineering in Alaska’a Kenai Fjords
all words and photos by Killian Sump unless otherwise noted
It was early June. I was returning to Aialik Bay for the
third summer in a row, standing on the bow deck of the Weather or Knot, a water taxi out based out of Seward, Alaska. The
boat fled Resurrection Bay, passed the wide Bear Glacier, and worked out way around
the cape alongside granite cliffs and hundreds of seabirds, bouncing with the
rolling sea as the captain Brent made his way into the next fjord. As we
rounded the bend and headed into Aialik, an impressive bay system composed of
towering peaks, islands, rainforest, and tidewater glaciers, something stood
out to me that was quite different than the years previous: There was So. Much.
Snow. The banks of the sea was stacked
with three to four feet of corn snow, and the mountains were filled in, white
against the blue sky, with clear
lines up peaks that I had previously never imagined climbing due to the loose composition
of the slate rock. To say the least, I was ecstatic. I was here as a sea
kayaking guide, and I was starting work for the lodge tomorrow, but all that
was on my mind was when I’d have the weather and time off to get out into the
mountains. The Kenai Fjords are wet place, characterized by shrouds of mist and
constant light rainfall, averaging about 50 inches of rain in the summer months
alone; I was praying for high pressure.
photo cred: Acacia Johnson (check out www.whereisacacia.com for her work)
It was June 21st. Geoff and I had our
kayaks ready on the cobblestone beach, loaded with climbing and skiing gear, as
we said our goodbyes to friends and family who had been celebrating the summer solstice
around the campfire in the tidal flats. Our minds were elsewhere. It was 1:30
am, and we had just awoke from an evening nap in preparation for what was to
come, opting out of the group festivities and taking rest in our cabins, with
feelings of excitement and nervousness for what we had planned. The weather was
perfect – not a cloud in the sky, not even a breeze went by as we stared out at
the peak. We pushed off the shore, and started paddling up the fjord, gliding
through smooth and glassy water in the early morning light, intent on our
mission. 
As we tour into the alpine and towards the main saddle, Geoff
yells, “There are ice-worms everywhere, this is insane!” Sure enough, we found
ourselves faced with a peculiar phenomenon: Thousands of ice worms, crawling
about on the snow in the flats before the saddle climb; everywhere we looked,
the tiny black worms were squirming around. We cruised along worm infested snow
for a few hundred meters, but they dissipated as the slope steepened. We worked
our way to the top of the first saddle, where some wildflowers greeted us as we
rested for a few minutes and took in the view of the bay. Mt. Addison, the
massive peak above the Pederson Lagoon that acts as a border for the Harding
Icefield, and the wide face of the Aialik glacier were painted pink-orange with
the morning glow, reflecting completely on the still surface of the fjord. The
air is calm, and it is quiet up here. Geoff and I exchange looks of awe,
turning to observe what lie ahead for us. We were going to climb the north ridge
from the saddle, a steep rocky ridge laden with wildflowers and grasses, before
descending into the backside bowl at the base of the main couloir.
We stared up into the steep, long couloir and began attaching
our crampons to our boots. I pulled my ice axe and helmet off my pack, grinning
with the thought of skiing the line. We started booting up the couloir, step by
step, Geoff leading. After moving for five minutes, it didn’t seem like we were
going anywhere - that’s when the vastness of this mountain really set in for
me. As it got steeper, we quickly rose in elevation, sending the mountainous
elevator of snow. There were entrenched gunnels in the middle of the
double-fall-line ramp, evidence of many days of melt and small wet slides. Rocks
littered the snow alongside the cliff walls – a summer-time weathered-out pack
of rotten corn snow. But it works. We were aiming to climb the whole peak while
still in the shade of morning. After an hour, we were two thirds of the way up,
peering out from the route towards the open ocean to the south. Low-lying fog
was beginning to sweep in from the Pacific, covering the water, shores, and
forests of much of the fjord with a thick white blanket. We moved in a rhythm,
the sounds of our boots kicking steps and the sliding and punching of our ice
axes creating a sort of alpine music in the surrounding empty air space. The great thing about ski-mountaineering is
the whole way up, you’re inspecting the ski route and imagining what it’s going
to be like to be on it for the descent, constantly scouting for the best places
to arch your turns and make the most of the terrain – a long contemplation
before the moments of bliss – gravity-fed soul food – flying down mountains.
It was time to ski. 20 minutes after my brother Riley had
given us the radio call from the Pederson Bight letting us know that the sun
was hitting the line. I was a little nervous as I clipped into my skis, running
the line though my head, trying to keep the focus instead of thinking about the
consequences. We were both amped. It was a go. A few shuffles and a shift of
the weight and we were off, traversing underneath the cornice, holding our
edges as we made our way over to the steep ridge that snow led to our sunny and
epic line – the steep upper face, down to the huge couloir, all the way down to
the lower south bowl. Geoff and I exchanged a few words, deciding to send the
entire line one in one run, individually. With a optimistic, “See ya at the
bottom!”, Geoff hopped right into his first turn, making some controlled jump
turns in the shade, sliding over into the sun as the ridge mellowed out. With
one look down the face, he took a huge ski cut, sending reflective bits of icy
corn snow scattering down the fall line: A good sign, not too warm yet. After finding
that the line was bomber, Geoff started arching fast and graceful turns down
the mountain, traversing over right to the top of the couloir and proceeding to
send the chute with elegance and control.
What a relief to see Geoff all the way down at the bottom,
pole raised, safe and sound. But this meant it was my turn. Before I could
second guess myself, I shifted my weight and started side slipping down the
steep summit ridge, flying confidently onto the upper face, shredding huge
turns as gravity pulled me downward, feeling the crispness of the snow on my
edges, constantly watching the ocean in the distance through my peripheral. I pumped
a big turn into the side of a curved wind lip, and proceeded to traverse into
the couloir, Laying steep turn after steep turn down the fall line as corn snow
sprayed off the surface into the sky, eventually funneling down into the
gunnels. I skied beside the gunnels as the slope evened out, watching my sluff
ride down the mountain along with me, found a good spot to cross through the
toe of it, cruising right down to reconvene with Geoff, dodging melted out
rock-holes for the last few hundred feet. He had a massive grin on his face as we
high fived and wrapped into a hug, stoked on the success of the mission. After
numerous spouts of happiness and whoops to no one, we proceeded to climb a
small nearby gully that topped out above the massive bowl of the west facing
aspect. In the saddle, we took some time to be on the mountain one last time
before ripping down a narrow and curving couloir into the bowl, skiing the face
of the bowl and picking our way through the facet ridden alders to find our
kayaks still resting beside the shoreline, about a 4,000 vertical ft descent. I
stepped onto the sunny cobblestones of the beach, waves lapping up on the
shore, flying high after such a monumental experience. We went for a dunk in
one of the nearby fresh water lagoons, laying out on the warm cobbles and
soaking in the mid afternoon rays, perfect.
photo cred: Geoff Jans
After about an hour and a half, we found the motivation to
load our gear back into our boats and get back on the ocean. Ten minutes later
we were paddling back across the fjord, with a slight sea breeze from the south
creating a little swell, our kayaks rocking about on the fluid surface. Paddling
is such a phenomenal way to finish a good long day in the mountains, returning
to the sea to reflect on the day, getting back into the original meditative
groove that is so characteristic of paddling on the ocean. Five miles later, we
arrived back on the beach we had left 14 hours ago, a solid day’s mission. It
felt great to be back, having been full circle at this point, returning my home
on the Pederson Lagoon, the most peaceful place I have ever known on this
planet. Content with our journey, we finally put our skis away for the season.
This was the third of three first ascents and descents I was blessed to put up
during the month of June in Aialik Bay. It will be a month to remember for the
rest of my life, forever an inspiration to keep exploring the untouched alpine
wilderness that is south-central Alaska.
* To see the article in it's published context, check out: https://www.facebook.com/groups/50884922475 for the pdf I posted on the APU Outdoor Studies Wall *
