A TRIP UP THREE FINGERED JACK “Trail to Upper Canyon Creek Meadow, Oregon” by Bonnie Moreland. Used under CC PDM 1.0 Editor’s note: In this article, Mazama Ron Gayer reminisces about a climb he made in 2001. The leader on that climb, Terry Cone, passed away in 2018 at the age of 79.
by Ron Gayer
I
was part of a Mazama team of ten climbers ready and anxious to tackle Three Fingered Jack. Our team started hiking the Pacific Crest Trail at 5:50 on Saturday morning in mid-July. We had all arrived Friday and had set up our tents or vehicles for a good night’s sleep—well, as good as you can get under those circumstances. Before turning in we managed to find each other (we were, for the most part, all strangers to one another) and gathered around our climb leader, Terry Cone, for instructions on what to do in the morning. Mostly it was just a recap of the equipment to take and what time we would be taking off. The next morning, after waiting for one member of our team, we finally got under way. Despite our late start, the morning was shaping up to be a beautiful one. About five minutes into the hike the team member who had kept us all waiting had to stop for a “clothing break.” He had begun the hike dressed as if to summit Denali mid-winter. So we stopped. Ten minutes farther down the Pacific Crest Trail same guy had to stop again, this time for a bathroom break. And so it went. Truthfully, I was beginning to wonder, somewhat uncharitably, just how much of the group’s time was going to be devoted to this one individual. A couple of hours from the time we embarked on our journey we arrived at a small ridge where Three Fingered Jack was visible for the first time. I don’t know what I thought I would see, but I wasn’t expecting to find myself looking at such a gnarled remnant
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of what may have been long ago a reasonably conical volcanic peak. The name, Three Fingered Jack, should have been a pretty good hint that this particular mountain was going to have an interesting summit. My initial impression was one of trepidation. My instincts, as it turned out, were spot on. Several hours into the climb we broke out of the forest, departed the Pacific Crest Trail, and walked a short distance to the base of this highly eroded volcanic neck sat amid a huge pile of rubble. We started to clamber up a long scree slope, essentially all rock fragments, most very small, some in the boulder category, but all of them just lying, tentatively, on the—and I’m guessing here—40 percent slope. With every step a climber could slide back farther or could unleash a small torrent of rocks on the team
