Climbers Spent 34 Days On This 12,000-Foot Route In 1965
Despite several attempts, the Hummingbird Ridge has not been repeated in over 60 years
Mount Logan rises at the heart of the St. Elias Range in the Yukon Territory of Canada, a massif where glaciers, plateaus, and ridges rank among the largest and most intimidating in North America. Its vast summit plateau and deeply incised faces create an alpine environment where distance, altitude, and weather combine to magnify every undertaking. Among its many ridges, the central south ridge descends for miles from the summit plateau to the Seward Glacier, a long, exposed line guarded by cornices, gendarmes, and avalanche-prone couloirs.
In the summer of 1965, Americans Allen Steck, Paul Bacon, Frank Coale, John Evans, and James Wilson, set out to attempt the first ascent of this central south ridge and to complete a full traverse of Mount Logan’s summit peaks. The climb extended from July 6 to Aug. 9, and required sustained technical climbing, extensive load hauling, and prolonged commitment at altitude. The ascent culminated in the traverse of Logan’s major summits: the East Summit at 19,600 feet on Aug. 7, the Central Peak at 19,850 feet on Aug. 7, and the West Peak at 19,200 feet on Aug 8. They climbers named their route Hummingbird Ridge, because they had an encounter with a hummingbird during their climb. As of 2026, the route has not been fully repeated, tho there is a variation called the Thunderbird Variation that was climbed in 1991.
The glacial valley below Mount Logan lay motionless under the midafternoon Yukon sun. Two tents stood in the heat, one a vivid red, surrounded by the scattered remains of an airdrop and the practical clutter of an expedition. All of it existed to soften the coming effort, though the prospect of ascent already weighed on the climbers like an unstable serac overhead.
From Base Camp, the scale of the mountain was inescapable. The south face rose twelve thousand feet above them, and from the summit a massive ridge swept downward for six miles to the Seward Glacier. The climbers were constantly reminded that, as Mountaineering, Freedom of the Hills put it, “a glacial valley is the catchment basin for avalanches.” The roar of falling ice was nearly continuous. Avalanches poured down Osod Couloir with the intimacy of surf breaking at one’s feet, leaving the men wondering about the one wave that might be larger than all the rest.
Their plan was simple and merciless. They would climb the ridge and carry their camps with them. Somewhere high on the mountain they would reach a point where they would decide either to continue over the summit to a cache in King Trench or retreat to Base Camp. That decision point, repeatedly reconsidered, caused what Steck later described as endless mental anguish.
Evenings brought uneasy conversations and dark humor. When the subject of leaving behind the long prod pole arose, one voice insisted, “I really don’t believe we’ll find crevasses up there on the ridge.” The discussion ended abruptly when a massive avalanche swept Osod Couloir, engulfing fixed lines and a cache. The word Osod, an Indigenous term conveying a pervasive fear, seemed perfectly suited to the place.
The prod pole was left behind. Later, on Shovel Traverse, its absence was noted when one climber plunged through a hidden hole, discovering that “nature’s own prod pole, tested through the ages, the cramponed boot,” was less forgiving. The mountains, Steck observed, had a way of rewarding dogmatism.
Progress came slowly. Evans and Long completed a dangerous lead toward the Prow, returning after twenty-two hours exhausted and empty handed. “Not even a place to sit down comfortably and eat lunch up there. A campsite is out of the question,” Long reported. Storms followed, burying the ridge and amplifying doubts. Loads accumulated painfully at the base of the Prow. Evans, alone on a tiny ledge, hauled seventeen forty-pound loads upward in seven hours, an effort that inspired awe in the others.
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On July 17, they cut ties with Base Camp and committed to the ridge. As Steck waited below the Prow, a faint whirring sound caught his attention. It was not falling rock but a hummingbird, hovering curiously over his red pack before darting away. Steck reflected on the odd kinship between them, both intruders on the ridge, one by chance and one by choice, and wondered which of them was better prepared for the struggle ahead.
By the time they reached the crest, space was so scarce that only narrow ledges could be carved for bivouacs. Camp I was finally established on a hand-cut shelf of ice. Snow fell steadily. Above them, the ridge dissolved into mist, cornices, and black gendarmes. Crossing the first cornice demanded a shift in attitude, and when it was done successfully, surprise outweighed relief.
Camp II, later remembered grimly, was forced upon them under worsening weather. In fading light, with tents still packed, they confronted a massive cornice up close and understood too late what they had committed to. One diary captured the moment bluntly. “This ridge is sheer madness.”
As Steck wrote in his book A Mountaineers Life, “Wilson, expedition philosopher and cook, pronounced Camp II safe by postulating that the cornice, should it collapse, would not take the tents and its occupants with it. He was a proponent of the value of “suffering” to be found in mountaineering, the enjoyment of the sport being in direct proportion to this ingredient. Another certainty that came to mind was that of the unwashed body. Shortly after our return I recall that my aunt, a psychologist, asked me in astonishment, ‘You mean to say that you went thirty-three days without washing?’ The great mental forces that lead inexorably to mountaineering were well known to her, but going unwashed was a concept she could not quite understand.”
They lived for days beneath overhanging snow, calculating anchors, joking darkly about elastic limits, and slowly accepting that the Snow Dome might never be reached. Steck noted how long-held dreams could infect others, even as reality gnawed at them. They did not know then that the cornice above would fall days later, just after they departed.
By the time Camp II was abandoned, the seeds of defeat had already been planted. Evans later reflected that it was not any single technical obstacle but the weight of weather, exposure, and scale that bore down on them. They debated whether to leave fixed lines for retreat, ultimately deciding to pull them up behind, committing themselves further while aiming for the Snow Dome as their next objective.
Brief clearings teased them forward. Long and Coale advanced the route while others ferried loads. New snow made every step uncertain. When Evans finally studied the ground gained, he realized how much progress had depended on a simple oversight. Long had forgotten to leave the large scoop shovel behind, and it became the defining tool of the climb. From then on, it was used on nearly every lead, cutting steps, carving platforms, and knocking down cornices.
Wind battered the tents and nerves alike. While Bacon led into gusts strong enough to sting exposed skin, music drifted upward from below. Steck’s harmonica, incongruous and elegant, lifted spirits and reminded them why beauty and discomfort were inseparable in the mountains.
Clear weather finally arrived. Fixed lines climbed ever higher. Camps shifted upward along ridges that looked impossible from below and merely desperate up close. When a narrow snow crest that had seemed insurmountable was crossed cleanly, Evans recognised how quickly despair could turn to hope.
Above Crest Camp, Long led another long push toward the Snow Dome in worsening weather. When a crack opened near the edge of a cornice as an anchor was placed, the consequences were instantly clear. If the cornice failed, it would not take lives, but it would take tents, food, and fuel. From that night on, the point of no return was fixed. If they were not across the traverse by Aug, 2, they would retreat.
The weather cleared at the last possible moment.
At dawn, Long and Coale set out across the traverse. When Evans arrived later with loads, he saw them as distant figures suspended in space. Long belayed from a pocket hacked into a steep slope while Coale worked ahead with relentless patience. Evans later described the route as a high wire in the sky, sculpted in snow, threaded with tunnels and cornices.
They established a precarious camp halfway across, a rare flat place affectionately named Yukon Flats. From there, progress continued with shovel, rope, and calculation. By Aug. 1, fixed lines reached the end of the traverse. Only seven thousand vertical feet remained.
Food, however, was running out.
The days that followed were long, efficient, and exhausting. Camps rose and fell along the ridge in rapid succession. Terrain that had looked terrifying proved manageable, though never forgiving. Cornices slipped away quietly. Couloirs yielded just enough passage. Records were set for rope fixed and loads hauled.
By Aug. 6, they crossed onto the summit plateau. At nine in the morning they ate lunch on a sunny col and understood, at last, what they had done. Nearly 28,000 feet of fixed lines had been placed. No direct aid had been used.
They staggered toward the east summit, weakened by altitude and fatigue, stumbling into crevasses and laughing at their own clumsiness. The view of their ridge from the summit justified every step. Clouds threatened but did not deliver.
The central summit came more easily than expected. The temperature was mild. The storm held off. Later, exhausted, they collapsed at a high col while tents were erected around them. One climber was too ill to move without medication, and yet by morning they continued on, reaching the west summit before midday.
The descent toward King Trench was long and punishing. When they finally reached the cache placed more than a month earlier, another storm closed in. They erected tents just in time.
Sources: American Alpine Journal, A Mountaineer’s Life, Alpinist.
