The Icefields...what place even compares? That was the question we asked ourselves upon squeezing out of the Helio Courrier and onto a dirt runway at Kluane Lake, in Canada's Yukon Territory. A few weeks before, I had no idea what to expect, aside from simply knowing that any first ascent was going to be appealingly uncertain and riddled with doubt. We were not disappointed in that regard.

The idea spawned, once again, from a single black and white photograph in the American Alpine Journal. Simon Richardson and Dave Hesleden had been on the face before, back in 2008, before a run-in with an avalanche near the Bergscrund turned them around. What conditions would we find on the South Face of Lowell Peak (3,630 meters)? Would it be chossy, dangerous rock and unprotectable ice? Would it be slabs of powder ready to fracture at any moment? What route would we take? How would we get down? The normal questions, I suppose.

The plane hadn't even been fired up for the season yet when we arrived in early April from Fairbanks, Alaska, where myself and two of my three teammates lived. It had been bound inside its hangar for days at Kluane while extreme wind gusts battered the premises. But as luck would have it, the weather cleared just a few hours before our convoy rolled in and bivvied next to the runway. This simple fact had profound impacts on our collective psyche. By noon the plane was in the air for a quick test, and we were chomping at the bit to get onto the glacier.

The Icefields – the Canadian side of which is often simply called the Saint Elias Range – is a different type of place. It's the largest ocean of ice of all the world's non-polar regions, and it contains the highest mountain in Canada and the second highest in North America. Our objective was not far from Mt. Kennedy – one of the Icefield's giants with a 6,000 foot high north ridge that has tested some of the world's best alpinists. Our peak was tame by comparison, yet still entailed climbing what appeared to be a steep face roughly 4,000 feet high on a peak that had only been summitted twice.

So when we touched down on the upper Dusty Glacier (some maps call it the Lowell Glacier) in perfect weather in late afternoon, camp was erected quickly so we could rest before launching into our project without delay. Jon and I sorted 2 ½ days of food and fuel, an ultralight alpine tent, 0 degree down bags, double ropes, 8 ice screws and a light rock rack and took off the next morning to piece together an interesting looking route that combined snowfields with couloirs and mixed rock. Meanwhile, Charlie and Eli headed out to repeat the route of second ascent – Simon and Hesleden's route on the west ridge. Their plan was to wand the route, thereby also providing Jon and I with a reconnoitered descent route from the summit.

The approach to the south face was longer than expected, requiring several crevasse negotiations and some low angle blue ice serac wall climbing, but we arrived at the base of the face within a few hours and chose a route through the bergschrund that gained a couloir to gain the face. Conditions seemed legit, with firm(ish) snow rather than powder, and nothing sending obvious signals of impending avalanches. But once the angle steepened, it became clear that it wouldn't take a very big slide to wipe us both off the face. It also became clear that neither of our two snow pickets would hold much of a fall, that the picks of technical tools probably wouldn’t, either, and that the rock was far too shattered and manky to accept rock pro. We entered the soloing mentality yet kept the rope on anyway, stopping regularly to dig mini pits and analyze it for facet characteristics, depth hoar, and underlying substrates. The decision was to keep going.

Beyond the entry couloir, we decided we had too much gear for what was likely going to be a snow climb. We ditched most of the ice screws, the other rope, and all the rock pro at the top of a rock outcropping and continued upwards. The route steepened and veered right, over some cliff bands. The no-fall zone firmly reasserted its title, while Jon and I prepared to finish the line in full knowledge of the consequences. We were fairly convinced we wouldn't trigger an avalanche, but if either happens, you're toast and it's that simple.

The route above branched, and we almost made the mistake of heading onto the wrong side of a huge spire about halfway up the face which would have ended up on the wrong side of the mountain. Any chance of finding good ice was gone, and climbing shattered rock the rest of the way was out of the question. We deiced to stay right of the spire and keep it simple, and as we kicked steps up the upper face to the summit ridge, it seemed like it would all work out.

By 5 pm we were nearing the top, and soon thereafter Jon, in the lead, popped out on the summit ridge just a few hundred feet away from the summit proper. SUCCESS! No false summits, and no complications, yet after 9 hours of essentially non-stop exertion, our pace was slowing, and when I reached the top, I sprawled out on my back, knackered but in good spirits. Charlie and Eli's tracks could be seen thousands of feet below on a snowy plateau but they clearly had not been on the top yet. The unwanded upper west ridge seemed broken, crevassed, and potentially tedious and dangerous to attempt to descend with no knowledge of how to get down it, plus the skies were darkening with storm clouds and night was approaching. A difficult decision was made to not bivvy on the summit in sub zero temperatures and increasing winds, but to take 30 minutes of rest, eat and drink, and downclimb our route to just underneath the bergschrund, where we'd bivvy.

The tediousness began. Step after step, down, down, down, don't lose focus, and don't fall. We descended unroped, and after an hour it just became rhythm. We knew the slope wouldn't slide now, so Jon and I began a series of casual conversations about life, and the silence between them was filled with random thoughts – much like that of a dream that seems weird but you don't know why. By 10 pm we had picked up our cached gear and crossed the bergschrund, but why stop there? There was a tiny bit of light left in the sky and camp wasn't far away, so we rallied on, haggered but functional, arriving at basecamp 14 hours after leaving. Fifteen minutes later, Eli and Charlie rolled into basecamp from their attempt, reporting a high point in a couloir somewhere around 10,000 feet. Though defeated from the summit, they were psyched with their day as well. We later named the route “Great Track”, in recognition of a friend of Jon's who noted such about every song he liked, and the fact that the route does indeed follow one.

Although the following day was supposed to be a real rest day, in the afternoon Jon and I couldn't help but ski toward the southeastern aspect of Lowell to do reconnaissance of its eastern sub-peak. We believed a complete ski descent might be possible, and although not as high as Lowell, it was a dramatic, triangular peak from our perspective, and it drew us in. We skied up a slope, traversed another one, crossed the bergshrund and arrived at the base of several route options – mostly in couloirs. A pit dig revealed favorable conditions and minimal avalanche danger, so we dropped in and rode and skied a continuous run to base camp. Meanwhile, Charlie and Eli headed up a small couloir near camp for a few runs.

When Jon and I returned to the subpeak the following day, we chose a couloir above the bergshrund and skied switchbacks until the angle forced us onto our front points. The colouir eventually turned to ice, where Jon climbed a steep ice chimney and I followed mixed rock and ice until we met up on the ridge above. Chossy rock, notable exposure, no rope, and gusts close to 50 mph later forced us off a few hundred feet from the summit (the next left couloir would probably end up directly at the summit), and we returned to base camp that night.

Finally, after four days of generally sunny weather, the bad weather moved in and trapped us for three days. It was then that I decided to put a long-envisioned dream to the test – to build the most elaborate base camp arrangement of my life. While the others fine tuned their snow block walls, excavated wind driven snow from within them, and built additional walls around the entire camp enclosure, I began digging a snow cave from within the vestibule of our three person tent. By the end of the first storm day, the cave was established. From a 2 foot deep recess from within the vestibule, one side contained a spacious boot cellar, while the other side led down another 6 feet deep into a 3 person snow cave, requiring a large snow block step to aid with the descent. The cave became our cook cellar, which was connected to the vestibule and the boot cellar, which was then connected to the tent in a multi-level snow condominium. Fantastic!

When the weather cleared, we all headed up glacier for more recon and skiing, wearing light shirts and plenty of sunscreen. Arriving at the top of a glaciated dome five hours later, with views of Mts. Alverstone, Kennedy, Lowell and Pinnacle Peak, we chose two different descent routes, then skied and snowboarded unroped most of the way back to base camp. That evening, we began scheming up our next objective. One idea was to move base camp east to attempt the first ascent of the northeast face of Pinnacle Peak, but we knew from our attempt on Lowell's sub peak that the main valley which could lead us there was exceptionally crevassed and looked fully heinous. Mt. Alverstone NE 5 (on some maps at least) had been staring at us the entire trip, with its gorgeous north ridge dividing the evening alpenglow on clear nights. We reasoned that there was no point in moving base camp with a prime and aesthetic line just across the glacier. We rested up and planned for a 6 am departure from base camp the next morning, weather pending.

The morning was bitterly cold but clear, with a strong west wind. We skied across the Upper Dusty Glacier with full insulation on, but by the time we began front pointing up the initial slopes, it was warm enough for soft shells. Near the top of the first shoulder, the the slope turned from neve to solid blue ice, providing for rapid progress. After traversing the first section of the north ridge proper, we arrived at the crux – a steep snow fluting around 800 feet long. With avalanche potential on one side, and death fall on the other, we carefully trenched our way up the fluting with pickets and running belays serving as psychological protection.

The fluting terminated at the start of another ridge traverse, which led to the base of a short crevassed slope and the crux of the route. By then, the weather had warmed substantially, the wind died completely, but visibility had dropped to less than a mile (fortunately we wanded the route from basecamp). A 60 foot step of steep ice and snow, with a crevasse in the middle, required a screw and several pickets but soon gave way to the exposed summit ridge. After two false summits, we arrived on top in poor visibility which only occasionally allowed for a glimpse of the north ridge of Mt. Kennedy; we figured we were even with its halfway point. Mt. Alverstone was in the distance, barely visible, and for a second we saw a flock of migrating birds, in formation, headed northwest.

The descent of the same route was tedious, and I punched through two icy crevasses near the bottom of the final slope to our skis – one ultimately left a bluish-black fist sized bruise on my thigh. Picking up our wands on the way out, we arrived at base camp 13 hours after leaving, where we rendezvoused with Eli and Charlie, who had recently returned from cleaning their wands from their high point on Lowell. That night we learned that Eli (Elias) was named after Mt. St. Elias, and that his middle name, Sanford, was given after Mount Sanford – a prominent peak on the Alaska side of the range. Having never mentioned this before, Eli nodded as Jon and I realized that our new-found partner was experiencing his very namesake for the first time ever. It was a fine moment.

With clear weather once again, it was time for some skiing and snowboarding, so the next day we enjoyed fantastic turns down a steep(ish) 1000+ foot couloir near base camp. During our evening pow wow, a weather forecast noted the arrival of a fairly stout storm for the next few days. With current flying conditions remaining excellent and with limited time on our schedules, we decided to get out before the storm's arrival. By noon the next day, we heard the distant whining of the Helio Courier. Andy Williams – a veteran Icefields pilot – scouted our location, circled twice, landed a mile down glacier, and gunned it uphill, full throttle, until arriving at the front door of camp. As with the flight in, it took two shuttles to get us out – a 50 minute, jaw dropping journey over oceans of ice with peaks protruding through them. The icefields...does any place even compare?

Later research suggested that our route on Alverstone NE 5 (which we dubbed “Cellar Line” after our base camp setup) was the first ascent of the peak, and that its likely that Richardson's expedition was the only other to climb from the Upper Dusty Glacier. It seems that most people have climbed Mount Kennedy and Alverstone from different areas (the north ridge of Kennedy is accessed from the Great Shelf), and we knew that Pinnacle has only been climbed from the other side as well. This area is ripe for future expeditions, with many more notable lines waiting for first ascents and documentation. For the complete photo set, visit the expedition archives at www.petedronkers.com.

We were honored to climb in the memory of Johnny Copp, Micah Dash, Sue Nott, Karen McNeil, and Peter Mackeith – all inspirational forces – through memorial grants from the American Alpine Club and the Alaskan Alpine Club in Fairbanks, without which this trip would not have happened. We also send praise to all the folks at Icefields Discovery (the charter outfit), Nemo Equipment, as well as the Fairbanks climbers for keeping the exploratory vibe alive.