The sun-protected slopes of Dutton Cliff held deep, cold powder—great for skiing, brutal for trail breaking. This 1,200-foot climb was grindingly slow, laying down switchback after switchback, doubt started creeping in again.
Are you sure you can do this, Mikey? Two hours in and only a few miles covered? If this pace keeps up, there’s no way you’ll finish in a day.
As I slogged upward, the headwall of Dutton loomed; steep, imposing, and offering no easy way through. To my right, rocky cliffs blocked easy passage. To my left, a 2,000′ drop straight into the lake. My only option was straight ahead—threading the needle between consequential terrain.
The snow firmed up as I climbed higher, scoured by the wind. I hastily strapped on my ski crampons, hoping for better purchase. Three laboring steps later—slip. FUCK!
Frustrated, gripped, and burning energy fast, I knew there was only one way up: bootpack. I quickly racked my skis onto my pack and started wallowing straight up the headwall. The surface was frozen solid making it too slick to skin. But the crust was unsupportable underfoot, collapsing to my mid-thigh with every step. I clawed at rocks and rotten tree limbs, using whatever I could to haul myself higher. Without boot crampons, I was aggressively kicking steps, desperate for a solid foothold.
Finally, after 15 minutes of struggle, I took the final steps onto the summit of Dutton Cliff (8,147’). Summit #3.