May 9th, 2026
~ submitted by Matthew Lettington
For years, Nahmint Mountain was one of those peaks lingering on my bucket list that I never quite got around to climbing. It’s not even an especially long drive — just over two hours from home. Maybe it was the horror stories people share about the heinous bushwhack. Truthfully, though, it had more to do with my hiking partners. My usual partners had already climbed it, and I never seemed able to find people brazen enough to face down the bush.
And yet, this trip marked my fourth ascent of the peak in just two years.
Each time I’ve taken more or less the same route up the northeast ridge, and I feel like I’ve now seen the mountain in nearly every season: late summer and snow-free; early spring with bare brush and heavy snow on the summit ridge; and now late spring, with fully leafed-out vegetation, soaking wet conditions, and a mix of rock and snow high on the mountain.
Even before hopping in the car, I expected the day would be wet. The forecast carried the telltale sign: hourly precipitation hovering around 0.1 mm until noon. Sure, that may not sound like much rain, but it’s worse than a full night of rain. With real rain, drops hit the plants and fall to the ground. At 0.1 mm, it usually means the mountain is simply marinating in cloud. A long, steady cloud bath.
Sure enough, on the drive in, I could see I was right. The clouds were beginning to lift, but the bush still glistened with the aftermath.
Driving to the start of the route at roughly 500 metres on the logging road answered another question I’d been carrying. A fire in the summer of 2025 had definitely ravaged the area, but thankfully, it appeared mostly confined to the clear-cut slopes. The upper cutblocks had burned severely, with soil stripped away and rock exposed beneath, but much of the loose debris between the road and the old growth had already disappeared. The old-growth forest itself looked largely intact, save for trees unlucky enough to stand along the burn boundary.
We decided to carry snowshoes. We knew there would still be snow on the ridge, and reports from nearby Vancouver Island peaks had been wildly inconsistent. Some parties insisted snowshoes were “definitely required,” while others claimed they “definitely weren’t needed.” It would have been a disaster if today turned out to be one of the definitely-needed-them days. Besides, what’s another six pounds on the pack?
At the boundary between the cutblock and the old growth, we discovered a new trail — or at least new since my previous visit in the spring. Fresh flagging, brushed-out sections, chainsawed logs, and carefully cut steps through blowdown all tempted us upward. Unfortunately, the route soon ventured out into the burned slopes.
We followed what appeared to be the obvious line. Had the forest still been intact, it probably would have been lovely. Instead, it was a miserable mix of loose gravel, unstable rock, burned stumps, and questionable roots clinging to steep gullies. We all agreed the route probably went, and most of us were willing to keep pushing upward, but eventually I decided we should cut our losses and retreat back to use my previous route. Ahead of us
lay a crumbling scramble with unknown terrain beyond. Maybe it improved higher up — or maybe it got much worse. It felt like too many unanswered questions and too much risk of wasting the day in terrible terrain and compromising a successful summit.
Back in the forest, we quickly gained elevation. Before long, water was pouring off the vegetation and into my clothing, running down my legs and sloshing into my boots. I’ll note that the folks farther back in line were also wet, but at least the backs of their pants remained dry. I hoped their boots were drier — and lighter — than mine.
The familiar challenges of the route remained the biggest obstacles of the day. Fortunately, we’d arrived just before devil’s club season truly exploded. The plants were only beginning to emerge from their buds. What is normally a grotesque forest of broad leaves hiding vicious spines was, for now, mostly bare stalks that we could cautiously weave between.
Above that came the lower gully: a steep, awkward scramble requiring plenty of green belays and a fair amount of kicking steps into loose soil and debris. Higher still, the infamous loose slope was actually improved by the wet conditions. The saturated gravel offered far better purchase than the loose marbles of previous ascents.
What I wasn’t delighted to discover was how bushy the terrain around 1000 metres had become. On my previous two trips, this entire section had been buried beneath several metres of snow, suppressing all the vegetation. Now liberated by spring, the terrain had transformed into a maze of thick brush, creating unexpected navigation challenges.
I think we drifted too far right. Left probably would have been easier.
Instead, we found ourselves clawing up an awkward slabby slope, contorting our bodies and oversized packs between slide alder and evergreens to surmount a final six-foot step. Ice axes and snowshoes constantly snagged on branches, as though the forest itself was trying to drag us backward.
And then, at last, the sweet freedom of the alpine.
Bursting out of the bush, we were greeted by the lingering remains of winter. I’d expected more continuous snow coverage, but the ridge was already breaking apart into alternating patches of rock and snow. Previous trips had offered straightforward snow climbs directly to the summit; this time we zigzagged constantly, weaving around exposed rock and rotten snow.
At one point I punched through a hollow section at a transition between snow and rock. I stood 6 feet back from the end of the snow and probed with my pole which caused that whole section of snow and me to drop nearly seven feet before stopping. Thankfully the soft snow collapsed with me.
The final push to the summit proved fairly straightforward. We had likely arrived during the final weeks of viable snow coverage leading to the summit block. In several places, the snow had already narrowed significantly, and while kicking steps, I found myself carefully evaluating each side of the snow tongue to make sure I wasn’t stepping into something consequential.
Summit life is the best life.
Though we’d hoped for better views, we stayed out of the cloud and escaped the worst of the wind. We took our time enjoying the reward for the effort: food, coffee, and the simple satisfaction of being high in the mountains.
Writing this now carries bittersweet feelings. While examining the summit cairn, we noticed the name of Peter Rothermel among earlier entries. After returning home, I learned of his passing.
Thanks to the snow, the descent back to the forest passed quickly. Gravity did most of the work, and navigation was far simpler now that we could follow the remnants of our own tracks. Even the forest seemed easier on the return. At least now we were moving with the bush instead of fighting against it. And, we picked better lines on the return that allowed up
to move through the difficult sections with ease.
So, is four ascents enough to satisfy my interest in Nahmint? That’s hard to say. Probably.
At the very least, I think I’m done with this particular route. On the summit, we found ourselves eyeing nearby Beverly Peak and Beverly Lake. I’d love to return by way of 5040, Beverly Express, or perhaps even the much longer approach from the far side of Beverly Peak.
Oh! And as for snowshoes? We carried them all the way but didn’t consider using them at all.