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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The last time I visited the Place Glacier area was with Eli R. back in the summer of 2009 during a whirlwind peakbagging tour of BC and Alberta. At the time, I had been perusing Matt Gunn's Scrambles in Southwest British Columbia and was captivated by the photos of a wild glaciated landscape that seemed utterly remote and full of adventure. I was especially drawn to the route description for Cirque Peak, one of the principal summits overlooking the Place Glacier, albeit not the tallest. For a guidebook that generally avoids glacier travel and limits scrambling difficulty to a user-friendly Class 3, Cirque is a bit of an anomaly. The peak seemed to offer it all: glacier travel, engaging scrambling on an exposed ridge rated "difficult" (one of only a handful of routes in the guide to receive that designation), an aesthetic approach complete with raging waterfalls, and the promise of outstanding summit views. It didn't take much convincing for Eli and me to make Cirque the debut scramble of our summer road trip.

Since I was still based in Seattle at the time, we faced a long drive to the trailhead and decided to spread the outing over two days, each overnighting in our own "private" glaciology hut rather than squeezing into the climbers' hut, which seemed a bit cramped and dirty by comparison. We climbed the peak the following day, enjoying the exposed scrambling and the final somewhat loose knife-edge before the summit. Cirque delivered everything I had hoped for and more. We then returned to camp, packed up, and made a beeline for Harrison Hut at the foot of Overseer Mountain-all in the same day. After that, it was on to other objectives, and I was content to leave the Place Glacier area behind for many years. That changed when reports of other peaks in the area began rekindling my interest, particularly Mount Oleg, the highest summit in the group.

Unfortunately, sometime during the intervening years, the traditional Place Creek approach had fallen out of favour following a major washout that rendered much of the route impractical. Anyone wishing to reach the area without undue suffering needed an alternative. That alternative finally emerged in the early 2020s via the already popular Spetch Creek FSR. The approach still sounded bushy and generally unpleasant, which did little to inspire me, until a variation was explored and shown to avoid most of the aforementioned nonsense. That was all the encouragement I needed. The time had finally come.

This time, with Wes in tow, we motored up the Spetch Creek FSR on a cool afternoon in early May. Since our route depended on a spring snowpack to suppress much of the alder lower down, we opted to car camp the night before and get an early start, hoping to take advantage of an overnight freeze and minimize the postholing that seemed inevitable. We made camp at the same pullout used for the Valentine Lake Trail, familiar to me from previous trips to Cassiope and Saxifrage and got moving shortly after sunrise the next morning. Thanks to sub-zero overnight temperatures, it was a cold start, though at least we could count on easier travel over firm snow—or so I hoped.

Crossing a plank spanning the old washout, we followed the abandoned FSR for a kilometre or two before crossing a cutblock and entering the forest near the head of the valley. Keeping the creek within earshot to our right, we wandered through the trees with only minor bushwhacking before looking for our exit. Upon reaching the first patches of semi-continuous snow, we crossed the main creek branch and followed a dry creek bed cutting through the alder-choked slope above. The plan was to use this feature to gain an open snow slope and then traverse left into the hanging basin containing the lowest of the four White Lakes.

This worked well, although we still had to battle through a short section of alder before reaching the slope. The traverse beyond crossed firm, mostly refrozen avalanche debris and was steep enough to warrant crampons and ice axes. We continued upward and across to a final steep forested section above the outlet falls of the lowest White Lake. I privately wondered how unpleasant this section would be on the return in soft afternoon snow, but that was a problem for another time. Above this steep section, the terrain eased considerably and we enjoyed easier travel to the lake, where we stopped for our first break of the day. Snow conditions deteriorated noticeably from here onward, prompting us to finally don snowshoes for the remainder of the climb.

From the lake, we continued north through open forest, eventually rounding the lower shoulder of White Peak's West Ridge before working our way onto a snow-covered talus slope where seemingly every third step punched through into a void below. It was obvious conditions wouldn't improve on the return, but as before, we'd deal with that bridge when we came to it. Travel improved substantially after crossing a minor saddle into the upper lake basin south of Mount Oleg and Mount Olds. We skirted the mostly frozen lake along its western shore and headed up gentle slopes toward the final headwall separating the two peaks. Here the wallowing resumed. Progress slowed considerably as we slogged through punchy snow toward the broad saddle above. By this point, I was feeling pretty spent and more than happy to let Wes continue breaking trail. A couple of steeper pitches remained between us and the summit, and I simply put one foot in front of the other, mindlessly following Wes's tracks until there was no more Oleg left to climb.

Finally, after about six gruelling hours, we stood atop Mount Oleg enjoying a glorious 360-degree panorama. Highlights for me included the views southwest toward Pemberton and up the Green River Valley beyond. The Joffre Group looked fantastic, as expected, but perhaps most satisfying was looking across the upper Place Glacier toward Cirque Peak, where I had stood some sixteen years earlier. That said, the standout view was down Oleg's East Ridge toward the saddle we had just crossed, with the prominent summit horn of Mount Olds rising immediately beyond—a perfect expression of alpine grandeur.

After about forty chilly minutes on top, we turned around and retraced our route. The various sections that had concerned me earlier proved every bit as problematic as expected. On the talus slope, I found butt-sliding through the worst of the punchy snow to be a far more efficient and less injury-prone alternative than trying to walk. Shortly below White Lake, I punched through to my waist despite wearing snowshoes. There was no telling how deep the void beneath me actually was, as I found myself dangling in space while attempting to extract myself. Then came the steep forested section, which was both too steep for snowshoes and too punchy without them. I chose the former, backing carefully down the slope facing inward. It was slow, sweaty work in the full afternoon sun.

Having had enough of the snow by that point, we decided to descend directly down the immense avalanche path and enter the forest at the first reasonable opportunity, whatever bushwhacking awaited us below be damned. Too tired and annoyed to stop and put crampons back on, I slip-slid my way down the firm-ish debris to the broad snow apron below, where I once again found myself punching through to my knees. Ugh.

Eventually we followed the creek as long as practical before diving into the forest for the final bushwhack back to the FSR. In truth, it wasn't all that bad—just indirect, with constant weaving around uneven terrain and dense vegetation. Still, crossing the cutblock and finally stepping back onto the road was a huge relief after so many hours of tedious travel. About eleven hours after leaving it, we returned to the truck. I'm glad we got it done, but speaking only for myself here, I'm pretty sure I'm good and done with the Place Glacier area now. A second visit was enough to remind me just how spectacular the scenery is—and just how much work it takes to get there!

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