A late-winter hill climb of McHugh Peak presents challenges and surprises

Our third attempt to do a hill climb of McHugh Peak this winter proved to be something of a charm after two earlier failed tries. Although I suppose one could argue it was actually a very early spring ascent, given that Jan and I (and yes, our dogs Denali and Guido) climbed the peak on March 22, two days past the Vernal Equinox.

Whatever the calendar might indicate, wintry conditions persisted in the Chugach Front Range east of Anchorage, as they will likely continue to do at higher elevations for several more weeks.

So yes, a winter ascent it proved to be.

The previous two times Jan and I drove to Chugach State Park’s tiny Bear Valley parking lot, we didn’t even start up the trail. On our first try, winds were so fierce at the trailhead that we sat in our gale-battered car only a few minutes before retreating to lower, calmer elevations for a woodland hike.

Our second try proved even more frustrating when my Subaru failed to make it up the last snow-drifted and slick stretch of roadway. Failing to gain sufficient traction, the car slowly slid backward into a snow berm. We were stuck badly enough that I had to dig out the car before we could turn and slide our way downhill.

The third time I had enough traction to make it to the parking lot, only to find it largely snowed in. I found just enough room to parallel park in the tiny designated area (I can’t over-emphasize how ridiculously small it is, as anyone who’s been up there can testify) and leave space for any emergency vehicle that might need to use the turnaround lane.

The air was calm and mild, with temperatures near 30 degrees, and the sun floated in a sky of mixed blue and white when we began our ascent. Along our chosen route, the snowpack was firm but not icy, except in patches, and portions of the lower mountain had been scoured clean of snow. In short, conditions were pretty close to ideal for March.

Though strenuous, the initial uphill hike across wind-blasted terrain was good to excellent with Kahtoola ice grippers and hiking poles. Still, I couldn’t help but notice that upper Rabbit Creek Valley and surrounding peaks were shrouded in ominously dark clouds to the east.

Upon reaching the roughly north-south spine that leads to 4,311-foot McHugh Peak’s summit ridge, we noticed the first evidence of a breeze from the east. Not long after that, the first snowflakes arrived. Still, we were mainly in the clear until suddenly we weren’t. The light breeze had become a stiff wind, driving snow across McHugh’s flanks, but nothing serious. Not yet.

About 1½ hours into our climb, we became immersed in a mountain storm. Blasted by high winds that whipped snow plumes across the ground, the hike became increasingly difficult. Still, visibility was good, and the air remained mild.

“Having fun yet?” I shouted to Jan, who gave me the look of someone wondering what she’d gotten herself into.

The dogs seemed to be game for continuing on, as long as we fed them occasional treats. Denali, as usual, took the lead, a smile creasing her face as she loped ahead. Guido stayed close, no doubt hoping food might fall from my pocket.

By the time we’d gained 1,600 feet or so of elevation, we agreed to find a spot out of the wind—no easy thing, given its swirling nature—where we’d take a rest and consider our options. We’d ascended high enough that we could see the summit ridge, another mile beyond and 700 vertical feet above us. But as we sat there, the ridge and sun above it disappeared in the clouds and blowing snow.

We still had good visibility at our elevation and could see our route below us. But continuing higher seemed risky, given the thick gray veil that had settled over McHugh’s upper slopes.

Moments after we agreed we had gotten a good enough workout, and it was probably best to descend, the clouds began to open. We could again see broad patches of blue sky and, best of all, McHugh’s summit ridge was clearly visible.

“What do you think,” I asked Jan.

“Let’s go a little farther and see what happens,” Jan responded.

Guido and Denali waited patiently while Jan and I repacked our food, hot tea, and gear before heading back up the mountain.

My pace was a bit faster than Jan’s and I moved ahead of her, the dogs staying with me. But I kept looking back to make sure Jan was in sight.

By then, the clouds had lifted and dispersed enough that visibility was good to excellent, and there was no sign of clouds closing in on the peak. But the wind remained fierce, and the snow it drove along the ground got caked on the left sides of Denali and Guido. I’m continually impressed by the stamina and toughness our dogs show on hill climbs, particularly little Guido, who weighs in at just 17 pounds.

As we ascended the last slope that rises to meet the summit ridge, Denali pushed ahead and found a spot out of the wind. I followed, Guido by my side, and Jan not far behind. The sky was once again thickly gray overhead, and the wind still blew fiercely. We agreed to descend to our previous picnicking spot before taking another rest break.

By the time we reached a broad plateau below the summit, the snowfall had largely ended. Not long after that, the winds subsided, the clouds parted, and the sun returned in an expansive blue sky.

When we stopped for our second picnic, we sat in still air, bathed by warm sunshine. What a delight that was; so delightful that we stayed put for at least a half-hour, maybe closer to an hour. Now every member of our group was smiling broadly.

Finally, we packed our things and continued down at a leisurely pace. We got an unexpected treat along the way: a flock of snow buntings on their annual migration north. This was the first time I’d noticed these sparrow-sized black-and-white songbirds in high alpine terrain. As they move through our region toward their breeding grounds, I’ve always associated them with Anchorage’s coastal flats.

McHugh Peak seems to surprise me one way or another every time I visit the mountain’s slopes, and that is one of the reasons it’s become a favorite place. The buntings were yet another example of that. And though the fast-moving storm we encountered wasn’t a surprise, its sudden departure and the sun’s bright, warming return was something of a happy thrill.

One final surprise remained. In the six hours we spent on McHugh, we saw no other people until we met a guy and his two dogs heading uphill less than 10 minutes from the trailhead. Jan and I love backcountry solitude, so we embraced this circumstance. Still, it seemed peculiar that no one else was on the peak, especially in the gloriously temperate late-afternoon weather.

Maybe what kept people away was that icy final approach to the parking lot. Or, perhaps it was because there was almost no place to park. Who knows. All we knew is that our third attempt had an enchanting quality to it, as if somehow we were charmed to be on McHugh’s slopes that particular day.

Anchorage nature writer and wildlands/wildlife advocate Bill Sherwonit is a widely published essayist and the author of more than a dozen books, including “Living with Wildness: An Alaskan Odyssey” and “Animal Stories: Encounters with Alaska’s Wildlife.” Readers wishing to send comments or questions directly to Bill may do so at akgriz@hotmail.com