The north side of Bear Mountain has several difficult routes, with the
North Buttress being the classic. The classic climbing on the steep upper buttress (5.10, 7-9 pitches) can be reached in two ways: (1) via Beckey and Fielding’s 1967 route up a glacier couloir, referred to as the “North Face Buttress” in the
Cascade Alpine Guide and the “North Face” route in
Alpine Select, or (2) via Kearney and Knight’s 1980 direct start, which has twelve pitches of climbing up to 5.10 on the lower buttress. This is referred to as the “Direct North Buttress” in both the
Cascade Alpine Guide and
Alpine Select. At 21 pitches and 2,400 feet of climbing from base to summit, the
Direct North Buttress (
DNB) more than doubled the length of a climb that was, at the time, considered one of the most serious in the range. The
DNB is about as North Cascades as it gets: remote, committing, some horrifyingly loose rock, some stellar pitches, memorable position, commanding exposure, and an epic approach. The rock quality on the upper pitches is considerably better than on the lower section. There is plenty of steep 5.9/5.10 climbing throughout, but be prepared for suspect rock in places, especially on the lower buttress.
In
2010, I climbed the steep upper
North Buttress, approaching via the glacier couloir to the left and using connecting slabs and ledges to bypass the direct lower buttress. Dodging falling rocks and traversing exposed, pebble-strewn slabs, we looked longingly at the lower buttress, wishing we had gone that way instead.
Sixteen years later, I finally returned. I had just met and climbed
Fisher Chimneys with Ben, and he mentioned that he was interested in the
Direct North Buttress of Bear. We both had some time available the following week, but rain looked like it would move in within two days. After nixing WA Pass because of wildfire smoke, tossing around ideas for objectives in the Stuart Range, and realizing that neither of us had three days available, I threw out the crazy idea: “What about if we climbed Bear in a single push?”
Bear has one of the gnarliest and longest approaches of any summit in the North Cascades.
Fortunately, both Ben and I like long days in the mountains—and we seem to be equally tenacious.
The numbers were daunting: about 14 miles of approach, much of it wading the Chilliwack River and clambering over logjams, bushwhacking, and then negotiating burn-area downed timber and slide alder up the hillside of Bear Mountain; roughly 5,000 feet of elevation gain; a 21-pitch, 2,400-foot climb; and then the entire approach in reverse. Most guidebooks suggest three long days for the adventure.
The approach, which accounts for far more than half the journey, had been a bushwhack when I climbed it in 2010. Apparently, flagging and clearing work in 2017 improved the route considerably, but by now it had reverted to something resembling its pre-flagged state: virtually no trail. The 2021 Bear Creek Fire had also created a large burn zone of downed charcoal-black logs and timber on the hillside of Bear Mountain, making the terrain even more rugged.
Plus, we would be doing much of it in the dark.
On my sister’s recommendation based on her 2018 climb of the
DNB of Bear, we chose to walk the Chilliwack River. There were a few logjams to bypass, and a couple of times the river came up to our knees and once to our waists, although the deepest crossing could have been avoided with a bit of bushwhacking along the shore. Most of the time, however, we were ankle-deep in water or walking on rocky bars, looking down into clear blue pools filled with spawning sockeye salmon.
It took us 11 athletic hours to reach the base of the route. When we looked up, we had eight hours until sunset. Could we really climb 21 pitches before dark?
The lower route was indeed horribly loose for the first couple of pitches, but the rock improved after that, with some quality sections of climbing as the route weaved a nice line toward the midway snow patch. From there, two quality 5.9+/10- pitches led to the next ledge, where the upper route begins.
On Pitch 12, just before the Upper Buttress, I took my first alpine whipper since my
2010 accident, when a hold pulled off. I didn’t catch the rope with my heel, but because my last piece was relatively close, I ended up head-down on my back. Shaken but unscathed and thanking Ben for the attentive belay, I continued upward.
The upper route was as good as I remembered—really high-quality climbing following the crest. We topped out just before sunset, having climbed the 21-pitch route in eight hours. We had done some simulclimbing and linking, but not a whole lot.
With darkness approaching and our bodies getting tired, we made the difficult call to skip the final 4th-class summit scramble. Both of us had tagged the summit on previous trips. We began the descent, using the last of the daylight to navigate back to the saddle, then regrouped and started the long slog down.
Navigation was more difficult in the dark, so we somehow managed to find all of the worst sections of downfall in the burn area. It got light again as we reached the river on the way out. Even with our tired bodies and the exhausting clambering over logjams, this section was still a magical experience, with spawning salmon filling the clear pools and no bushwhacking required. Around hour 30, we were fading, so we took a 20-minute “power nap” on a sandbar. It was surprisingly rejuvenating. We then reentered the forest and continued bushwhacking, eventually managing to pick up some semblance of a flagged trail once we crossed back into Canada. The hike out took us a grueling 14+ hours.
The day entailed roughly 25 hours of rugged travel and 8 hours of climbing. Pretty much constant movement for 34 hours and 23 minutes, car to car—the biggest single-push climbing objective either Ben or I have ever done. I cannot imagine a better partner than Ben. We kept up an enjoyable conversation and had fun throughout, even as the hours piled up.
This page includes a route overlay, map and GPS track, time statistics, and pitch-by-pitch photos. Enjoy!
