My second go at this one, having been stymied the previous year just below the alpine by steep, unconsolidated snow overlying a bomber crust. It was a no-go for snowshoes, with every step sloughing away thanks to the firm layer beneath, and too labour-intensive to plow through without them, especially considering the distance we still had left to cover—an "epic" in the making. Then there was the avalanche concern. It was quite warm out, and the roughly foot-deep surface snow wasn't bonded to the crust at all. We looked around for alternatives, but they all led toward an obvious gully descending from the peak's North Face, likely loaded and ripe for a trigger. For me, that put the kibosh on pursuing the summit any further, despite Wes, in his usual carefree manner, pushing on. Ought to know better by now, and heeding my better judgement, I called it.

Fast forward a year, almost to the exact same date, and once again I found myself hiking up the Happy Creek Falls Trail—this time solo and hopeful for a happier outcome. Fortunately, unlike the year prior, the highway wasn't gated at the Ross Dam Trailhead, and I didn't have to sneak through the bush beside the highway for half a kilometre just to reach the normal starting point. Up through the forest I went, eventually reaching the falls at the end of the maintained trail, where an obvious climber's path takes over. Following this route generally east of Happy Creek, I worked my way through the forest to a clearing where the first glimpse of the objective finally revealed itself overhead.

The trail more or less ends here, and since this is primarily an early-season route, you ideally want enough snow to cover the alders and bushy nonsense that comes next. Sadly, winters haven't been what they once were around these parts, so with little snow covering anything at this elevation, I continued up and left across a talus slope, soon encountering one of a couple of parties I'd cross paths with that day. This pair had skis strapped to their backs, and I couldn't help but wonder whether the optimal ski season for this route had already passed. No words were exchanged, and we all continued on our way.

Up and across the talus, followed by a steep but mercifully short traverse through forest, brought me to an upper clearing. This area was already choked with alder, but with continuous snow coverage from here onward, it wasn't too difficult to tease out a route up the creek drainage and onto the open slopes above. Mind you, it was barely manageable in snowshoes, and I remember thinking how much more annoying it would be with skis. You'd really have to want to ski this thing to make it through here.

Travel improved considerably beyond that point. On the descent, however, I avoided the punchy afternoon snow through this section for fear of punching through and ending up in the rushing creek below. The forest immediately to climber's left provides a reasonably safe alternative. Next came a broad, mostly treeless "alder meadow" before I found myself back at the previous year's turnaround point. A steep forested pitch followed, this time with much better travel, leading onto the open slopes above and finally revealing the remaining distance to the summit. Breaking trail through a good six inches of slop, I worked my way upward over a series of rolls, each taking a little more out of me than the last. My pace slowed considerably, but upward and onward, as they say. Before long, I found myself staring up at the final steep pitch leading to the summit ridge. Old tracks were visible, though mostly filled in with fresh snow and offering little assistance. The reflected solar radiation and complete lack of breeze turned this section into a bit of a furnace, further adding to the struggle. I reached the ridge crest just before my vastus medialis seized up completely and stopped for a much-needed hydration break before tackling the final hop, skip, and jump to the summit—which, in my exhausted state, seemed to stretch on forever.

But forever eventually ends, and there I was at last, standing among the communications equipment on top, savouring the hard-won fruit of my labour. A trip up Ruby is primarily about the views, as it sits smack in the heart of North Cascades National Park. The obvious standout is Ross Lake, stretching away directly north of the summit. That view alone was enough reason to come back and finish the job. Other highlights, if I can remember them all, included Jack and Crater Mountains, Snowfield Peak and company, the mighty Boston Glacier with Buckner, Boston, and Forbidden towering above, the peaks of Ragged Ridge with the Rainy Pass, Easy Pass, and Washington Pass peaks beyond, Goode Mountain, Mount Logan, the Pickets, the magnificent McAllister Glacier peaks, Mount Redoubt, Mount Spickard, Bacon Peak, Mount Blum, and finally Mount Shuksan and Mount Baker off in the distance. Put another way: an epic view.

Several long glissades made quick work of the descent, and along the way I finally encountered the ski party from earlier, along with a couple of others slowly grinding their way upward. And here I thought my progress had been slow. Clearly, the skis had bogged them down where the alder was thickest. Yeah, no thanks.

All told, it came to five hours up and three and a half hours down, where Agata and Pepper were waiting in the campervan with cold refreshments at the ready. Some peaks are worth going back for despite the disappointment and effort of a failed first attempt, and Ruby is most certainly one of them. If there's a better perch overlooking Ross Lake and the surrounding North Cascades, I've yet to find it. Some summits are memorable because they come easily; others because you have to earn them. Ruby firmly belongs in the latter category.

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