Directly south across the Tenas Creek Valley from the classic SSWBC guidebook peaks Sun God Mountain and Seven O'Clock Mountain stands Mount Ronayne. It's a relatively popular objective, either in winter on skis, usually descending a steep couloir on its North Face, or in spring and summer via the standard counterclockwise corkscrew route, which partially follows the Tenquille-Owl Traverse. Sandwiched between the mighty Lillooet River Valley to the west and the Birkenhead River Valley to the east, in the not-too-distant backcountry directly north of the village of Pemberton, this is a very scenic sliver of the Coast Mountains with generally good, albeit very overgrown, FSR access. It had been a minute since I was last up this way for the two aforementioned peaks, so with a fair-weather mid-June day to burn, I set my sights on Ronayne as my next instalment in the area.

Motored up the Pemberton-Portage Road as I have countless times before, hanging a left onto the Birkenhead Lake FSR for some 9.6 kilometres before turning left again onto the Tenas Creek FSR shortly after the main road crosses a bridge over the Birkenhead River. As mentioned, this road has become quite overgrown since the last time I was up this way and added plenty of fresh pinstripes to my truck as I proceeded higher into the valley. I finally stopped and parked along the roadside after another 7 kilometres or so of continuous paint abuse, generally in the vicinity of the Sun God/Seven O'Clock trailhead. I was no more than a kilometre or so from the end of the road, where I'd be picking up the trail anyway, so figured I might as well start walking from there.

The trail was easy to locate beyond the end of the road, making an ascending traverse southward to soon intersect Tenas Creek. I hopped across the creek, after which the trail more or less disappears, although the route ahead remains obvious. Across meadows below Ronayne's looming North Face, I continued toward a large snow and talus slope flanking the peak's northwest corner, encountering some rather fearless wildlife along the way—including a first for me: a large porcupine traipsing across a snowfield directly in front of me, all "honey badger doesn't give a shit" like!

Around said corner and then up into the small valley directly west of the peak, I was now officially following the Tenquille-Owl Traverse route. There's probably a trail through here once the snow is gone, but the gist is simply to continue straight south up the valley before veering left near its head to gain Ronayne's broad South Shoulder. The views really opened up here, particularly to the south and southwest toward the Fowl Peak area and the high peaks flanking the west side of the Lillooet River Valley, despite some low-lying cloud and smokiness aloft. I took a minute to soak it all in before turning my attention back to the task at hand.

Continuing directly north, the remaining route up Ronayne looked pretty trivial: an easy boot up the snow followed by a final scamper over the rocky summit block to the top. About 3.5 hours up, I finally stopped for a nice long break and a rest in the warm sun. Good views to the south and southwest as mentioned, along with Sun God and company directly across the valley to the north. More distant views were obscured by wildfire haze, which, this only being June, seemed a bit early in the season. Whatever—take what I can get, I suppose.

With time getting on, I reluctantly shouldered my pack and got down to the business of heading back. I descended off the east end of the summit, aiming for the large snowfield in the bowl south of the peak to expedite matters, then more or less retraced my route back to the end of the FSR without issue—or any further wildlife encounters, for that matter.

As I hiked down the road, dark clouds and thunder could be seen and heard advancing up the valley toward me, so I made haste for the truck. I kicked off my boots, slipped into the flip-flops, and turned the ignition just as the first drops of rain began to fall. Within minutes, it turned into a deluge. I felt for the others still out adventuring in the area, presumably somewhere around Sun God and whatnot, because it was one hell of a soaking thunderstorm that rolled through that afternoon.

Made it out just in time!

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With news that the washouts on the Nahatlach FSR and Kookipi Creek FSR had recently been repaired, there was no time like the present to make a dash for a peak or two in the slice of Coast Mountains lying just north of Boston Bar and immediately west of the Fraser Canyon. Up until this trip, the area had been a bit of a peakbagging void for me, with only American Mountain, Old Settler, and Urquhart far to the south, and Askom Mountain and Mount Brew well to the north, checked off the list. That leaves a rather significant stretch of peaks in between, culminating with southwestern BC's tallest—and arguably biggest pain in the ass to attain—Skihist Mountain. Whether I like to admit it or not, I'm slowly closing in on this beast, tales of horrendous bushwhacking, packs of wolves, and notoriously shitty rock be damned. But that's an adventure for another time... if ever.

For now, I figured it prudent to at least explore something off the next major FSR immediately south of the one used to access the aforementioned giant. By far the most popular objectives in the area are The Nipple, often combined with nearby Mount Laughlan for a neat little two-fer featuring enjoyable scrambling guarded by reportedly rather unpleasant bushwhacking. Those peaks also sit right above the west bank of the canyon, with views eastward over fairly unremarkable hills. Instead, I opted to venture a little deeper into the valley in hopes of finding less brush and more interesting scenery. Enter Mount Ichor—an otherwise obscure peak perhaps best known for the 5.10b climbing route Back of Beyond Buttress. Inspired by a recent trip report describing a non-technical ascent, I settled on Ichor as my objective for the day.

Back to Hope, then north along the Fraser I went, crossing the river at Boston Bar via a bridge I previously hadn't even known existed. From there I followed the west side of the canyon for a while before finally turning west onto the Nahatlach FSR. The valley here is broad and wild, with numerous recreation sites lining the well-maintained road as it winds deeper inland. Twenty-five kilometres after crossing the Fraser, I turned left across a bridge spanning the Nahatlach River and continued south on the Kookipi Creek FSR.

After so many kilometres—and especially after leaving the main road behind—I began to appreciate just how remote this area really is. I found that mostly exciting, though admittedly a little unnerving as well. Certainly not the sort of place where you'd want mechanical trouble. After another 9 kilometres or so, I turned right off the Kookipi Creek FSR, crossed another bridge, and continued up a tributary valley immediately to the west. I followed this road for another 9 kilometres to near its end, where a spur descends to a landing just before the deactivated bridge crossing the main creek. I parked there, shouldered my pack, and set off.

Crossing the creek, I followed a surprisingly good forest road north along its west bank for roughly 1.5 kilometres to where a stream draining Ichor's west basin crosses the road. If memory serves, the road more or less ends here anyway. From there I climbed steeply through the forest, keeping the stream within earshot on my left, before emerging into the broad talus basin immediately west of the mountain. I hopped boulders upward, passing beneath the now unmistakable Back of Beyond Buttress, building the occasional cairn along the way—being far too stubborn to record a GPX track, as usual.

Now turning right, I entered a higher talus basin enclosed by towering granite walls, using lingering snow patches where possible for easier travel toward the headwall above. A left turn brought me onto continuous snow leading into a small bowl, with a saddle on Ichor's southwest ridge just beyond. Upon reaching the saddle, I turned left for an easy stroll along the gentle ridge to the summit, where I finally stopped to savour the reward for all the day's adventuring. It had taken me just under three hours to get there, proving that, at least for Mount Ichor, the crux is the drive rather than the hike.

But no sverdina.com trip report is complete without a word about the views, and I can confidently say these did not suck. Highlights included the Cairn Needle-Traverse-Breakenridge group to the southwest; the remote peaks east of the In-SHUCK-ch FSR looking directly west; the crest of high summits surrounding the Rutledge, Kwoiek, and Chochiwa glaciers to the northwest; and a fine look toward the headwaters of the Kookipi Creek valley. The views east toward The Nipple were, as expected, kind of "meh," and with lingering cloud obscuring the skyline, I couldn't quite tell whether Skihist had decided to make an appearance.

After about twenty minutes on the summit, I started back down, arriving at the truck by 3:30 p.m. for what had turned out to be a pleasantly short day. From there it was back toward civilization... and straight into the inevitable late-afternoon Highway 1 parking lot. All in all, a pleasantly short day in a surprisingly remote corner of the Coast Mountains—and one more piece of the Skihist puzzle now in place.

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Officially, this was an attempt on Mount John Decker, but horrible bushwhacking combined with exhausting postholing through deep, unconsolidated snow ultimately conspired against us. One look at the roughly 500 feet we'd have to lose—and then regain—just to reach the base of John Decker's northeast ridge was enough for me to call it. Instead, we settled for the unremarkable and unnamed "Peak 2199," a subsummit of Tolkien Peak about 1.6 kilometres to the northwest. Interestingly, our consolation prize is actually taller than John Decker and arguably offers better views, so despite its distinctive name, I'd suggest giving JD a miss. If anything, Tolkien Peak is the real prize out here, so if you're making the effort, that's the one to bag.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Rewind to the evening before, when Wes and I drove up Phelix Creek Road and car camped at the roadside to capitalize on an early start, hoping to beat the heat and take advantage of firmer morning snow. With all the recent logging activity in the valley, very little looked familiar compared to when I was last up this way climbing Mount Gandalf and Mount Aragorn. Fortunately, we correctly identified the Phelix Creek West spur we'd be using the following morning, so things were looking promising as we settled into our sleeping bags—or so we thought.

The next morning we coasted a short distance back down to the spur, where progress immediately ended at a large water bar. No matter—we hadn't expected to drive very far anyway. We walked past a switchback, along a straight stretch of road, and soon reached a washout that permanently ended vehicle access. Then things became... interesting. And by "interesting," I mean very bushy.

Although we remained on the old roadbed, it became increasingly choked with alder the farther we progressed. Hidden beneath the fresh growth were countless old stumps and cut branches, making every step a game of tripping hazards. After about an hour of this punishment, we finally reached the road's end, where the alder mercifully gave way to a steep uphill traverse across an area of regenerating forest before finally reaching mature timber. A relatively short thrash through the woods delivered us to the shore of a picturesque little lake, complete with a neat-looking peak rising from its opposite shore—Peak 2199. With continuous snow beginning at the lake, we strapped on snowshoes and headed along the south shore into the valley beyond.

Well... almost.

Somewhere back in the alder, Wes had managed to lose one of his "suffer slippers," and there was exactly zero chance either of us was volunteering to go back and look for it. Needless to say, morale wasn't exactly soaring by this point. To make matters worse, the overnight freeze we'd been counting on never materialized. Instead, we slogged through bottomless slop, repeatedly punching through into hidden voids beneath the snow. Eventually we turned up the major drainage separating Peak 2067 from Peak 2199, wallowing and cursing our way to a broad saddle. From there, the standard route to John Decker requires dropping into the adjacent drainage before climbing back out. Given the conditions, that simply wasn't happening.

Looking up from the saddle, I figured we might as well salvage something from the day and started plodding up the broad ridge to Peak 2199. Tolkien S1, a slightly higher and somewhat more official summit, lay just beyond the next saddle, but by then I'd thoroughly had enough of the dreadful snow conditions and called it good. Had I truly cared, I suppose I could have pushed all the way to Tolkien Peak itself, seemingly just a stone's throw farther on. But appearances can be deceiving, and I could only imagine how miserable the travel would be. The last thing either of us needed was a hyperextended knee—or worse.

Despite everything, the summit views were surprisingly good. John Decker stood immediately to the south, taunting us from across the intervening basin. Farther south, the Birkenhead group dominated the skyline, while Mount Oleg—where we'd stood only weeks earlier—rose beyond as the centrepiece of the Place Glacier area. Beyond that stretched the impressive wall of peaks overlooking the Pemberton Valley between Pemberton and Lillooet Lake. There were also excellent views southwest toward Sun God Mountain and its neighbouring summits.

Satisfied with the scenery, we settled in for a long summit break, even managing a nap while quietly dreading the return through all that miserable snow. But return we must. The descent proved every bit as tedious as expected, with frequent hip-deep postholes reminding us not to let our guard down. Eventually the snow ended, only for the bushwhack to begin anew. Back on the overgrown road, Wes' missing snowshoe was nowhere to be found—or perhaps we'd simply forgotten to look for it. Either way, it was gone.

Roughly ten hours after leaving the truck, we staggered back to it absolutely convinced of one thing: We would never, ever come back this way.

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Shovelnose. What an odd name for a creek, from which the local FSR takes its name and, by extension, the informal name given to the area immediately west of Mount Fee. Google tells me it's also a type of shark, which got me thinking: given that this area is well known as an early-season ski touring destination, perhaps the runs here are notoriously "sharky"—thin snow coverage with hidden rocks just waiting to ruin your skis or snowboard, not to mention a knee or ankle. I can check all three boxes, so let's just say I have a personal connection with the damn Shovelnoses! That aside, my curiosity was piqued not only by the name but also by the area's apparent quick access to the Squamish-Cheakamus Divide between Mount Fee to the north and Cypress Peak to the south. With nothing better coming to mind for a relaxed spring day hike with Pepper, I set out to explore this enigmatic mountain selachian.

We drove up the Squamish FSR before turning onto Branch 700 about 7 kilometres short of the Elaho Mainline junction. This branch is particularly rough and steep in places, enough to have me wondering if I'd somehow taken a wrong turn lower down. I eventually made it to a switchback about 8 kilometres in before snow brought further progress to an end. We parked there and continued on foot, with snow becoming continuous on the road not long afterward.

About four switchbacks later, we left the road and climbed through a cutblock toward the forest above. The snow was already getting punchy despite wearing snowshoes, so progress wasn't especially quick. A few short but steep grunts through the trees eventually brought us onto the broad western spur of the provisionally named Shovelnose Creek Knoll. From there, we rounded a gentle shoulder onto the open north-facing slopes, with the so-called knoll finally coming into view. Thankfully, the snow had firmed up again, meaning no more postholing for either Pepper or me.

Up and over the knoll we went, continuing toward the crest of the divide a short distance beyond. At the saddle I turned left to explore the ridge south of Fee, soon reaching the day's highest point and my original turnaround. I could have continued to the next slightly higher bump... then the next one after that... and before long would find myself all the way on Mount Fee. Madness. Looking south instead, I noticed an aesthetic little point of snow and rock just beyond the saddle and decided it looked like the more interesting objective. Easy snow slopes led to a neat little arete for the finish, complete with a cairn on top to remind me that others had beaten me there. A fine little perch, and exactly what the doctor ordered despite lacking an official name.

The panorama from this unnamed summit was outstanding. Fee and Cayley dominated the skyline to the north, while Roe, Cypress, and Tricouni lined the divide to the south. Looking east and west, the Squamish and Cheakamus River valleys stretched away below, flanked by countless familiar giants. I was briefly tempted by nearby Sheila Peak to the south—it's a named summit on Peakbagger, after all—but quickly came to my senses after considering the extra elevation loss and regain. Besides, I'm fairly certain I snowboarded off it during a Powder Mountain heli-ski trip back in 2011. It counts in my book.

After lingering for a while, we retraced our steps toward the truck. A cool breeze and increasing cloud cover made for a noticeably chillier finish to the day. Pepper started shivering, so I stopped to warm her up before continuing down the remaining stretch of road. Once we reached the gravel, however, she refused to take another step. That left me carrying her until my arms gave out, at which point I tried stuffing her into my backpack. In typical Jack Russell fashion, she wanted absolutely nothing to do with that.

Back on the ground you go, Pep. The so-called "train" is leaving with or without you—move your ass!

And move it she eventually did, returning to the truck under her own power. Soon enough we were enjoying cold beer for me, spicy pork rinds, and a well-earned nap for Pepper on the passenger seat.

Shark 0. Pepper 1.

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Carnival Peak is a rather unremarkable summit on the southern terminus of the Pemberton Icecap highlands, dividing the East Fork of upper Dipper Creek from the Squamish River. However, being set back somewhat from the deep valleys, towering peaks, and glaciers that surround it, the views from its summit are surprisingly good. That, combined with my long-standing desire to explore the Squamish Headwaters area, made it an appealing objective. So, when a recent trip report surfaced containing nothing but praise for what sounded like a thoroughly enjoyable outing to Carnival, I knew it was time to pounce.

Once again accompanied by Wes, I motored into Squamish and continued up the Squamish Valley FSR for a whopping 37 kilometres of dust and gravel toward the head of the valley. To put that into perspective, it's roughly the same distance as driving the paved Sea-to-Sky Highway between Squamish and Whistler. We then turned onto the unsigned S-400 branch, followed it for a little over a kilometre, and eventually worked our way to near the end of the S-426 spur before parking, about 8 kilometres from where we'd left the main road. One other vehicle was already parked there, and given the relatively remote location, we were fairly certain we'd have company on or near the peak that day. Better yet, there would likely be tracks to follow.

Beyond the end of the road, we entered a small cutblock, following bits of flagging into the forest. Heather and duff quickly gave way to snow as we continued upward. Since our route started slightly west of Carnival's South Spur, we turned up and right after reaching a small pond area early in the approach—still buried beneath the snowpack—and made an ascending traverse toward the rounded crest above. We gained the ridge just as the trees gave way to open slopes, reaching a minor saddle with the last of the forest now behind us and a glorious landscape of rolling snow domes and rounded summits stretching ahead.

With our objective finally in sight and a set of tracks leading the way, the route ahead was obvious. Travel through this section was scenic and enjoyable, featuring one short descent and a stretch of sidehilling on still-firm snow that wasn't ideal for snowshoes, though conditions improved shortly thereafter. Before long, I was closing in on the party ahead.

At the base of the summit headwall, where the other group had kicked in a veritable trench through the soft, unconsolidated snow, I briefly considered grabbing my ice axe. In the end, I left it stowed and continued upward in snowshoes. The slope looked more intimidating than it actually was, and before long I found myself on gentler terrain just below the summit. Along the way I encountered Joanne and Ling descending from the top. We exchanged a few words before continuing in opposite directions. As it turned out, we'd end up climbing Fire Mountain together later that August—but that's a story for another report.

The summit views were every bit as good as advertised. For me, the standout was the view toward Exodus Peak at the southwestern edge of the icefield. Other highlights included looking northeast toward Famine Peak and the impressive icefall immediately south of it, Ring Mountain and Little Ring Peak with Mount Callaghan framed neatly between them, and finally the view north toward Torah Peak rising dramatically above the broad expanse of ice to its west and south.

Having thoroughly satisfied myself with the scenery, I began the descent, dispatching the steepest section with a quick and efficient butt-slide. Rejoining the other party—now four people strong plus a dog—we lingered for a while just below the southeastern bump they had chosen instead of the true summit. We waited there for Wes to finish his brief stay on top before resuming the trek back to the truck. In the end, it took us just under three and a half hours to reach the summit and about six and a half hours round trip. Not bad at all for a peak I'd initially written off as little more than a viewpoint and well worth the effort to visit!

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