Just thirty miles north of Vancouver, B.C., on the shores of fjord-like Howe Sound, rises a huge smooth-walled granite rock formation to the elevation of 2,100 feet. Some maps label it the “Stwamus Chief,” but popular nomenclature calls it the “Squamish” Chief because the booming industrial town of Squamish lies less than a mile from the northern extremity of its granite walls.

 

The view here typifies the British Columbia Coast Range, almost the ultimate manifestation of scenic grandeur. Behind the tranquil waters of the sound are dark fir forests and a specter of snow-capped peaks, with facing walls that suggest depth as nothing else can.

 

While The Chief does not touch the climbing potential of Yosemite Valley, there is no climbing area of such major proportions in North America that is so near a major metropolis. However, its potential as a climbing attraction was dormant until May of 1965 when four of us completed a Grade VI climb, but this does not end such possibilities. This was the direct west face by a route line that I had detected in 1959, when three of us made the first major technical climb from bottom-to-top via the Squamish Buttress, or “south arete.” 

The next major route to the top of The Chief was via the Angel’s Crest, a two-day affair completed by Hank Mather, Les MacDonald, and the writer. Misconceptions persisted as a result of the “Grand Wall” route on the west face, climbed in 1961 by Ed Cooper and Jim Baldwin. In their accounts they assume their route was the first important technical route on the walls of The Chief. For all the work they chose to become involved with, including the placement of 138 bolts, their route pattern has little logic, as it climbs blank areas where two different crack systems could have been followed, and then makes a final exit from the west face 200 feet shy of the summit rim.

 

In January of 1965, Eric Bjornstad, Alex Bertulis, and I tramped through deep snow from the highway to the base of the northerly of these crack systems to explore a “Northwest Passage” which would be a direct classic route up the west face. The clutch of winter had frozen patches of ice and verglas on the great wall, white and shiny in the clear and transparent air. The tracery of snow on the walls made route planning simple. In several later winter weekend explorations we climbed a number of pitches and left a store of equipment at the high point. It was interesting to learn that it was quite possible to climb on the route, though slowly, under winter conditions. Needless to say, this was cold and arduous work. Ice had to be pried out of cracks, but the smooth slabs were clean. On one occasion our adventure ended by a series of rappels down the lower vertical walls in a swirling snowstorm.

Left: “Squamish Chief showing ‘Northwest Passage’ route on west face. Summit is 2100 feet above sea level. Photo by Fred Beckey 

Right: “Leader and belayer on ‘Northwest Passage’ route on the Squamish Chief in British Columbia. This pitch is perpen- dicular. The white areas are denudation of lichen, and denote overhangs or water streaks. Aerial Photo by Tim Auger

While it was our original intention to make the climb in one continuous push, it was not possible to muster a party available during the one period this would require. The obstacles conquered in the winter made it possible to muster a party in early May and push the climb through in 2½ days, with 2 bivouacs. Our foursome included Hank Mather, Leif Patterson, Alex Bertulis, and myself.

Brilliant weather and mild temperatures put zest into our climbing, and made it a pleasurable struggle. The many difficult pitches climbed earlier were now behind us, including the fearsome overhanging headwall that caps out at about the 900-foot level. A severe fifth-class pitch led to one of the West’s most exposed belay ledges on this headwall. The next seventy feet of direct-aid overhung so much that the hauling line hung out over thirty feet from the ledge; to top it, piton placing was extremely difficult. Those who prusiked here spun like spiders far from the wall. The only task made simpler by the great overhang was the hauling of loads.

On our first night’s bivouac we tied into pitons and small evergreen shrubs hanging from the wall. Far below us the twinkling lights from the streets of Squamish glowed in the dark. Civilization seemed to merge with wilderness within a few feet. The waters of Howe Sound shimmered in the starlight, as we watched the movement of both cars and boats far below. Watching over us to the north was the snowy mass of Garibaldi, faintly visible against the black sky.

In the morning we followed a long piton traverse that led to a “dead-end” ledge. Here we met with the only really blank area on the route, a smooth 80-degree wall bisected by an overhang. One difficult pitch here required 16 bolts and many pitons to complete a difficult traverse beneath a large overhang. Most of the iron here had to be placed upside-down behind expanding flakes.

We were fortunate to find a spacious ledge for the final bivouac, and on the final day explored our way along an exposed ramp that led leftward and up, close to the summit rim. The last problem was a wall climbed with knife-blades and tied-off pitons, all for aid, just barely holding. Cleaning the pitch, I mantled onto the edge of the rim. Just as I was getting my weight off the final piton, it came out on the rope. Local climbers and photographers had come up the trail on the “back-side” to meet us, and for once, we had ample help toting the equipment back to our cars.