The Greenwood Jones [V, TD, 5.10, 1300m] on the North Face of Mt Temple

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§1 | INTRODUCTION

The North Face of Mt Temple provides one of the more dramatic views along Highway 1. It rises ~1300m from base to summit, providing a world-class backdrop for visitors to the Lake Louise area. Often likened to the North Face of the Eiger, the face boasts an impression collection of TD and ED-graded lines. I’ve been all over Mt Temple; I’ve hiked the tourist route to the summit, climbed the 50-classic East Ridge, skied the Cobra couloir, and attempted the Aemmer couloir — but going into this summer I had yet to climb a proper line on the North face.

Two routes on the face drew my attention; the Greenwood Jones and the Greenwood Locke (sidenote: the term “legend” is used all-too-frequently in climbing circles, but surely it’s appropriate to use it in describing Brian Greenwood). Of the two, the Greenwood Jones is easier and safer. It does not require you to climb under seracs (whereas the approach to the Greenwood-Locke in the Dolphin Couloir is threatened by the apartment-sized seracs of the summit glacier), the climbing goes free at a purported 5.10a (instead of 5.10c), and it is easier to find all the pitches in condition. Friends-of-friends who had climbed both also reported that the Jones was a far more pleasant and fun outing than the Locke. All of this information played into my choice to pursue the Greenwood Jones as my first route on the face.

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§2 | ATTEMPT 1: WEATHER WINDOWS & WATERFALLS

Attempt Date: August 18th, 2024
Participants: Noah Macdonald & Julian Larsen

Julian and I spent the better part of August fitfully checking the weather, making plans, and promptly abandoning those plans. After an upsettingly high number of false starts, we finally saw a marginal weather window. After talking ourselves into believing that it was good enough to justify an attempt, we set off from Calgary on August 17th. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), our attempt was shut down long before we could discover if our weather window would hold.

Bright and early on the morning of the 18th, we reached the base of the route. It was supposed to be marked by a waterfall to its right. We arrived at a waterfall, but could not find the 5.4 corner of the first pitch. Fear began to creep up on us; there were only two waterfalls in this area, and the other one is threatened by apartment-building-sized seracs overhead. If we had found ourselves at the base of the wrong waterfall, it meant that we were, in essence, playing Russian Roulette with the unstable seracs. It didn’t help that we had heard one of the seracs topple on the approach; the roar of falling ice was fresh in our minds.

After some delirious cross-referencing of visible snow patches with photos of the face, we (incorrectly) determined that there was a high likelihood we were in the wrong spot, and furiously scrambled leftwards to escape the imagined threat of seracs above. Soon, we decided to lose some elevation to gain a better view of the face. With a quick check of the map and the benefit of the slight light of dawn, we realized that we had, in fact, been in the correct place, and returned to our original position, having wasted more than an hour. With the benefit of morning light, we realized that our mistake was our failure to look at the waterfall itself. Pitch 1 was not to the left of the waterfall; it was the waterfall. The pitch was beyond soaked, flowing with a steady and powerful stream of water.

To the left, a steeper wall offered a way up. We roped up and attempted to salvage the climb. I hesitantly made my way up the wet quartzite in my mountaineering boots, placing a handful of pieces of gear before reaching a distinct crux move. Not knowing if the terrain above was harder, I lost my nerve, and decided to call it; we had already wasted plenty of time, and conditions were clearly sub-optimal. Given how hard the start had become, and not knowing what awaited us above, it did not make sense to continue. We pulled the plug, packed our kit, and began the long march out of Paradise Valley back to the car.

Failed attempts like this one hurt because they come at a steep cost. The opportunity cost of spending a weather window on the wrong objective is not insignificant when usable weather windows are uncommon. Attempts also cost money: gas ain’t cheap. But they serve as an excellent reminder that alpine climbing requires bailing; learning to enjoy the bail experiences is important for staying safe in alpine climbing.

Julian, having been visiting from Vancouver, drove back home on the day of our bail. That meant I needed a new partner, and Katie Graham answered the call.

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 §3 | ATTEMPT 2: THE ELECTRIC EPIC ON THE “EIGER OF THE ROCKIES”

Attempt Date: August 23rd, 2024
Participants: Noah Macdonald & Katie Graham

Chapter 1: The Approach

We set off from Lake Louise Village, biking up the steep road toward the Moraine Lake turnoff. Katie effortlessly pulled ahead of me as I struggled to keep up. I felt my heart rate climb into zone 2, then 3, then 4. The effort forced me into a standing position, and then off my bike entirely.

It was only then that I noticed the problem; my bike was offering significant resistance. The rear brake pads were rubbing against the wheel. We paused at the Moraine Lake Road turnoff to remedy the problem, but, unfortunately, neither of us knew how to fix it sans tools. My solution? Disengage the rear brake entirely.

With my brakes disabled, we cruised to the Paradise Valley turnoff and continued without problems.

From Lake Annette, during the early hours of August 18th, we made our way toward the North Face. I chose a more-optimal line up the scree than in my previous attempt, and we made significantly faster time over less heinous scree towards the base of the face. From afar, it appeared that the first pitch corner was wet, but not actively flowing. Unfortunately, this was a trick of the dark, and closer inspection revealed a small but problematic stream filling the corner. Pitch 1 was still out.

Chapter 2: The Climb

Luckily, the sketchy wall to the left of the waterfall was now dry (and I was too stubborn to turn back a second time). I led the pitch taking a line that felt around 5.10b; on top rope, Katie managed to eliminate the crux traverse and climb the line at a slightly easier grade.

After the lower cliff band, the route transforms into mild third-class scrambling. We crossed the stream feeding the waterfalls below and aimed to get into a broad gulley feature to the right of the rib. The route steepened gradually, stepping into 4th class, and then 5th class at a chimney feature on the left side of the broad gulley. Here I suggested we rope up. For the sake of simplicity (and because the terrain was still rather easy) we chose to simul-climb on a single 8mm Mammut cut-protect rope.

While easy, these lower pitches surprised me with how chossy they were. In my mind, quartzite is usually quite solid. The nearby East Ridge, for example, has some of the finer quartzite scrambling and low-fifth climbing in the area; that the same quartzite band on the same mountain offered detached blocks and a kitty litter scree surface baffled me. My bafflement turned to adrenaline and fear when one such block dropped out from under my feet when I shifted my weight. It felt like someone had pulled a lever that opened a trap door beneath me, and I watched in horror as the fridge-sized block I had released cascaded downwards. Fortunately, our line of ascent was not the same as the fall line, and the falling pillar left both Katie and our rope unscathed. I had somehow managed to avoid whipping by catching myself with one hand on a jug and my shoulder pressed into a corner; my shirt ripped, but we were otherwise unscathed. While ripping holds is nothing new for any Rockies alpine climber, the fact that the block pulled somewhat unexpectedly left me feeling shocked. I had kicked it, and though I heard a hollow sound, I had figured that it was large enough that my delicate and deliberate movement would not set it off. To learn so violently that I had miscalibrated was a good reminder that I should not overestimate the stability of a block based on its size.

The rest of the lower buttress was uneventful, though containing more interesting and difficult climbing than I had anticipated. Whether this was due to poor route-finding or Rockies alpine sandbagged, I’m unsure. I know I have a tendency to beeline for “fun” looking pitches/features instead of following the path of least resistance. Regardless, after two long (and one medium-length) pitches of simul-climbing, we switched to pitched climbing. The climb had steepened, so we broke out our second rope and I set off lead after lead, ending each pitch at around 60 meters. Many good belay stances were to be found.

I know some trip reports mention difficulties in building secure belays, but a few knifeblades, peckers, and tricams helped me build bomber anchor after bomber anchor. The only problem I encountered was rope drag; the route sometimes traverses around large blocks, through significant changes in steepness, or across the edge of the ridge, causing significant rope drag regardless of whether you use a single or half ropes.

A selection of the anchors:

After climbing the famous chimney pitch, I figured we had about 7 pitches left. Unfortunately, I was operating under the assumption that one additional pitch led back to the crest, where I would find the famous chossy traverse pitch that precedes the limestone headwall. I was spectacularly wrong; it took 3 nearly-full-length pitches of sustained climbing (subjectively 5.8 or 5.9, but supposedly easier) to reach the traverse. Was I off-route? If I was, I can’t imagine the actual route is preferable; my way had some incredibly fun quartzite on good rock.

At last, we reached the dreaded traverse. I had a bit of rope left, and didn’t see many satisfactory anchor options, so I set off. Midway across, I set up a two-piton anchor in the only good rock I could find and belayed Katie up. The ledge was shockingly low angle; the traverse barely counts as climbing. At its hardest, it is perhaps fourth class. My next pitch was short, and brought us up a corner to a three-piton belay. From here, trip reports had made me fear that the route finding would be difficult, and the climbing loose and runout. This was luckily not the case. A 5.8 corner with a fixed piton led to easier ground out right, taking a few pieces of good gear. A short runout over somewhat (but not terribly) chossy 5.easy brought me to a few more gear placements, and before I knew it, I was at the base of the limestone headwall, where an inviting vertical crack provided a perfect stance with good gear for an anchor. The pitch had been just short of 60m, and compared to earlier pitches it felt reasonably solid and protected. A Squamish-only trad climber might find it heinous, but an experienced Rockies climber who is solid at the grade would find it trivial.

At this point, my arms were cramping. Not from the actual climbing, mind you; rather, the rope drag was bad enough that pulling up excess rope and belaying at the top of every pitch was tiring me out. I popped some electrolyte pills and racked up for the last three pitches of the headwall.

P1 (Felt 5.9): A surprisingly good pitch. There is an intermediate anchor; I almost attempted a much steeper line to the left but noticed a better way out to the right before committing to a hard move. Don’t make that mistake.

P2 (Felt 5.10a): Perhaps the best 5.10 pitch I’ve climbed on limestone. A steep move brings you into a corner system. Underclings and good feet move you across left and up in a blissful sequence of moves. The exposure is also unreal; looking down yields more than a thousand meters of exposure separating you from Lake Annette. I wish I could do this pitch again, and again, and again.

P3: (Felt 5.10c): The famous and aesthetic first move feels 10a, to be sure, and the pitch is not dissimilar to other sandbagged Rockies alpine “5.10a”s. But if this pitch was bolted at a crag, 5.10a would be laughable. The crux involves a delicate and crimpy traverse rightwards over a slab into a corner system over rusty pitons for protection. Don’t whip; who knows when those pitons were placed! Another pitch that would earn classic status on its own.

We topped out and spirits were high. We had climbed the technical rock on the Greenwood Jones! A perfect day on a beautiful rock. I had been searching for a route that could offer the same sort of all-day fun that I had experienced on the Beckey Chouinard in the Bugaboos, and I had found it here on the North Face of Temple.

Then, our luck ran out.

Chapter 3: Electric Boogaloo

A storm had been occluded by the glacier and upper East ridge. It was only when we started to breach the upper segments of the upper NE Ridge scramble (the “top out” of the Greenwood Jones) that we could see the menacing clouds. Our attitude of jubilant ease was replaced by a worried urgency as we reached the toe of the glacier. It was here that Katie noticed that she was missing a crampon. Presumbly, it had fallen off during the climb. How and when? We were unsure; all we knew was that the surviving crampon had been clipped with a a carabiner, whereas the other one had merely been lashed on with straps. Worse: it was the right crampon missing, and the glacier mostly consists of ascending sidehilling with your left side upwards on the slope. This meant Katie would have her downhill foot skating across bare glacier ice, with the consequences of a fall being an un-arrestable slide off the North Face to the valley 1300m+ below.

With crampons on and axes in hand, we set off across the glacier. We did not make it far before my fears were confirmed with a buzz; all the metal on me had begun to hum in the static field of the electrical storm. We needed to take cover immediately. Going down was not an option, since it was no more sheltered than our current location. Instead, I figured we needed to take shelter in a crevasse, and told Katie as much. I rushed ahead to the nearest crevasse, and to my surprise, found an entrance to a natural snow & ice cave hidden in its side. The size of the cave was perfect for two people, if a bit cozy.

2 hours later, when the thunderclaps eased into the distance, I poked my head out. My first foray out of the cave was unsuccessful since raising my ice axe in the air was sufficient to get it buzzing. I retreated and waited a while longer. The menacing clouds had passed and so had the buzz, so we broke our makeshift camp and set out for the summit in the dying light. As we entered the clouds, the sun set, causing a dramatic loss of light. The winds almost immediately picked up in the clouds. We fought onwards, with Katie heroically battling the steep glacier ice with a single crampon and ice tool.

As we approached the summit, the buzzing returned. I figured we were close enough that it would be faster to retreat off the other side; returning down the steep glacial ice to the comfort of our snow cave would take far too long. Katie and I pushed on, stopping only to rip off our crampons at the transition to rock. The scree on the scramble route facilitated a quick descent; we stopped below a large boulder that provided a small degree of shelter, stowing our crampons, removing a few layers, and grabbing small snacks to eat as we moved.

Luckily, the rain had not started in earnest. Once we passed below the 4th class scramble crux, a slight drizzle began. We continued on, and dropped to skier’s right when we hit sentinel pass; we had cached gear at Lake Annette (and our bikes were at Paradise Valley trailhead) making the traditional exit via Moraine lake unviable.

Unfortunately, the rain picked up as we continued losing elevation into Paradise Valley. The lightning returned with the rain. Each strike would light up the moraines, reminding us that we were uncomfortable vulnerable on open terrain. The thunderclaps that followed were frighteningly loud. Most concerning of all, the gap between the thunder and lightning closed to an uncomfortable proximity; at its closest, the time between light and sound was just under three seconds. With the speed of sound being 343m/s, I would wager the lightning was within a kilometer of our position.

The psychological state brought about by this kind of approaching storm is hard to describe to someone that hasn’t experienced it. Mortal urgency is the best name I can give it; we descended with speed, seriousness, and singleminded focus. We needed to get to the trees. The moraines seemed to stretch on forever, but eventually, they came to an end. We were rewarded by a noticable increase in the amount of rain; very quickly, we were soaked. My hardshell likely needed a refresh in it’s DWR, because it almost immediately wetted out. It was only by moving continuously that we had any hope of staying warm.

The trails of Paradise Valley did not fare well in the storm. Large swathes turned into streams, and other stretches turned into small ponds. Katie was wearing canyoning boots and neoprene socks, so she had little problem with marching through the swamp. My mountaineering boots resisted well for a while, but soon enough filled with water.

The rest of the march out was a story of becoming progressively colder and more miserable. By the time we reached my bikes, I was scared I would get hypothermia; I was violently shivering (even having wrapped my emergency blanket around myself) and seriously considering ditching the pack and sprinting down to the car to heat myself up through exertion. The thought of braving the chilling winds that would result from biking downhill was frightening. Ultimately, I did decide to bike back down (I wanted to get to the car as fast as possible). Katie led the way through the downpour; visibility was terrible with the rain in our eyes and the darkness of a stormy night.

Getting to the car was a mercy. After stripping out of our wet layers and driving to a nearby gas station, we exchanged gear and slept a few hours before driving off in our respective directions (Katie to Golden, and me to Calgary).

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§4 | ROUTE BETA

Steph Abegg’s website has some of the best beta on the route. I won’t bother replicating that info here, but I will add some comments:

1. The start of the route can be forced on the left if the 5.4 pitch is a waterfall. Leave time to sort out a line; I found a decently protected 5.10-, but it could almost certainly go at a lower grade if you’re careful and are trying to keep the grade low. I make no guarantees, though.
2. The scrambling after this is 3rd class, amping up to 4th, then low fifth higher up. Just climb until you stop being comfortable. Roping up down low would be pretty silly/dangerous; there is a LOT of choss in this section.
3. The lower climbing goes on a fair distance and is shockingly loose. Once it begins to steepen, the rock quality also improves.
4. My intuition going into the route was that there would be a LOT of low-fifth, with some 5.7 steps thrown in until you hit the 5.8 higher up / the limestone headwall cruxes. This was not the case. Lots of the lower sections felt like they had difficulties to yam 5.8 (read: 5.9), and there was a lot of it. Many pitches were reasonably sustained.
5. We could simul less than I expected, in part because we had half ropes that we did not shorten, and in part because the route does dart around large blocks and the crest of the buttress causing excess drag. I believe I counted 2 large blocks of simul-climbing from where we roped up, and then 14 subsequent pitches (all of which were in the 45-60m range). A keen party using better simul-climbing technique could do better, but I figured I was leading fast enough to make pitching it out work.
6. Steph’s photo of the large, cavernous chimney marks the one we also opted to take. In the moment it felt off-route since it’s so far to the right, but it was an excellent pitch that led to more excellent climbing above. That said, other trip reports make it seem like the loose traverse pitch is close by once you pass the chimney pitch. Not so. I counted three reasonably full length pitches of fairly sustained climbing before I hit the ledge traverse (which was incredibly obvious and cannot be missed)
7. The traverse is NOT a full rope length, contrary to the Mountain Project beta. Traverse the ledge, through a little gulley feature, then gain a small amount of height (obvious) to reach a three-piton belay. Go no further.
8. The next pitch is often described as loose and unprotectable. I am very confused by this; it was better quality than the bottom-most quartzite pitches. Some steep moves past a piton allow you exit out right; take the path of least resistance over somewhat chossy but really easy ground. A perfect crack at the base of the limestone headwall will greet you at less than 60m out.
9. Enjoy the headwall pitches! Pitches 2 and 3 are especially high quality. A bit sandbagged (i.e. consider these like Yamnuska grades; the “5.10a” 3rd pitch felt more like modern 5.10b or a soft 5.10c to me, but it was very much aligned with other 5.10a alpine pitches I’ve done in the Rockies).