April 11, 2026
~ submitted by Matthew Lettington
It had been a long time since a 3 a.m. alarm dictated the start of my day. There’s something nostalgic about that kind of alpine start—the quiet house, the groggy coffee, the slow realization that you’re about to commit to something big. It felt good to be back in that rhythm.
Our objective was Sutton Peak, this time opting for the Harrison Lake approach rather than the long ridge. It’s a trade-off: less ridge travel, but a nearly five-hour drive each way. The kind of day where the effort begins well before you lace up your boots.
The logging road in was mostly cooperative, though one small washout forced us to stop, fill it in, and coax the vehicle through. We parked at around 800 metres and continued on foot, quickly encountering the first patches of snow near the end of the road. With a big day ahead, we didn’t waste time. As soon as we were sinking more than about eight inches, the snowshoes went on.
That decision came with some entertainment value—most notably a short, awkward scramble down with snowshoes still attached. Not graceful, but effective.
We worked our way up the hiker’s left of the creek toward Harrison Lake, eventually wrapping around the lake’s left edge to the base of the long, zig-zagging gully. At the bottom, we paused to assess the overhead hazard. The cornices were present but manageable, and by staying well out of the fall line we could mitigate the risk.
At around 1600 metres, the gully steepened into a headwall of snow with an overhanging section that didn’t invite negotiation. We traversed far to climber’s right instead, swapping snowshoes for crampons as the snowpack firmed up with elevation. From there, we climbed steep slopes—approaching 60 degrees at times—pushing above the saddle before dropping back down onto it.
We’d carried our snowshoes all this way. There was some talk of caching them, but in the end we decided they’d earned their summit bid as much as we had.
From the saddle, the final approach presented two options: the standard rocky route or a direct snow climb. The rock was coated in a thin, treacherous mix of ice and snow, with limited visibility of what lay above. The snow slope, while steeper, was at least consistent and predictable. We chose the latter.
The slope quickly demanded respect. Midway up, angles exceeded 45 degrees, and we were grateful for a second ice axe. Kicking steps was futile in the firm snow; front-pointing became the only reliable technique for a solid 100 metres of elevation gain.
The summit greeted us with wind and a rapidly lowering cloud ceiling. Within minutes, the weather shifted—fine ice crystals and snow blasting into our faces, urging us not to linger. It was a summit earned, but not one that invited celebration. We took what we could and began the descent.
Dropping off the summit was careful but straightforward. Back in the upper gully, conditions had softened just enough to allow for secure, confidence-inspiring steps. For a brief stretch, things felt easy.
Then came the descent from 1600 metres down toward the lake—and with it, some of the worst conditions I’ve encountered.
A deceptively soft top layer—about 30 cm of fresh snow—hid a chaotic mess of frozen avalanche debris beneath. It was a minefield. With crampons on, every hidden block threatened to catch a point, wrenching feet in unpredictable directions. Upper bodies would continue one way while legs abruptly changed course. Without crampons, the surface became a slick, uneven mess that offered little purchase.
Postholing was frequent and demoralizing—often to the crotch. Snowshoes weren’t much better. On the steep slopes, they behaved more like reluctant skis, the snow beneath them shearing away with each step. It was the kind of descent where no option felt right, and every step demanded full attention.
Type 2 fun at its finest.
And yet, despite it all, the day felt deeply rewarding. The kind of effort that leaves you wrung out but satisfied. Huge thanks to the group for their patience, steady attitudes, and good humor through some truly trying conditions.
Somewhere on the long drive home, that familiar feeling set in—the hum of exhaustion from too little sleep and too much effort. It’s not comfortable, exactly, but it’s honest. The kind of tired that reminds you you’ve done something worthwhile.