Rothberg-Birdwhistell Exploration Fund: Mt. Sanford Mountaineering Expedition

On May 9th, 2025, Diego Figueroa, Ian Jones, and Sydney Kahl began an expedition to climb and ski Mt. Sanford, the sixth tallest mountain in Alaska. As three fairly new NOLS mountaineering instructors, the purpose of the trip was to plan and execute our own ski-mountaineering expedition and put our decision-making, route-finding, and expedition skills to the test.

Mt. Sanford offers a formidable proving ground for ski mountaineering. It is a seldom-traveled peak in the remote wilderness of Wrangell-St. Elias National Park and Preserve, a land management area larger than nine U.S. states and about 25 percent bigger than Switzerland. Our route up Mt. Sanford’s north ramp includes complex glacier travel without technically demanding climbing, aside from its high elevation at 16,237 feet—a perfect venue for testing our glacier travel skills while also offering the possibility of high-quality, big-mountain skiing. 

We flew onto a plateau above the Sheep Creek drainage and navigated into the volcanic rock-filled riverbed that flows from the Sheep Glacier. Sanford’s native name is Hwniindi K’elt’aeni, and it holds deep cultural and spiritual significance for the Ahtna people, who are indigenous to the Copper River Basin region. The term K’elt’aeni is also associated with nearby Mount Wrangell and is often interpreted as “the one who controls the weather,” referencing the mountain’s effect on local weather patterns. Despite not erupting for over 300,000 years, we could still see evidence of Sanford’s volcanic past as we camped our first night in a valley bottom littered with volcanic rock and glacial silt. 

On our second morning, we ascended on skis (Ian on a splitboard) while pulling a sled through connecting ribbons of snow until we reached the toe of the Sheep Glacier, where we roped up for glacier travel. We continued until we reached the base of a heavily crevassed section of glacier.

Based on all our pre-trip assessments of the route, we identified this as our key challenge. After some deliberation, we decided it would be best to navigate this in the morning after a night of rest and freezing temperatures, in hopes that the snow bridges would be more stable. So, we set up camp for the night.

The next morning, we packed efficiently and moved up towards the crevasses. On our flights in, this section looked especially formidable—it’s significantly steeper than the rest of the glacier and is riddled with crevasses. Recent snowfall had laid down a deceptive cover—a thin veil of snow that hid crevasses beneath our feet but did nothing to strengthen the fragile bridges over them. Each step carried the quiet threat of a sudden collapse, the ground dropping away like a sprung trapdoor.

We moved methodically, ensuring there was adequate tension in the rope between us in case one of us punched through. Our movement was slow but deliberate, probing the snow below us to assess the strength and depth of the ground over the gaping holes beneath us. We picked our way through the maze of crevasses largely without incident—though Diego did punch through a snow bridge up to his waist. He hauled himself out quickly, brushing it off with a grin and a dry comment: he had “touched the void.”

A unique phenomenon of traveling roped up is that each team member has a different perspective on the terrain ahead. What might look impassable to the leader can appear navigable to the second or third person on the rope. From their vantage point, they may see a path forward that the leader cannot. In the mountains, the rope team becomes a living metaphor, highlighting that informed decisions often come from those behind, not just those in front. 

Once through the crevasses, we pushed up higher, making camp in the shadow of a nunatak plastered in blue ice. This would be our home for the next two days as we waited out a storm that rocked our tent with wind and covered our camp in new snow.

Hunkering in a tent is a requisite skill of NOLS mountaineering instructors, and we kept ourselves entertained by eating as much of our food weight as possible, playing cards, shoveling snow, and napping. Throughout this forty-eight-hour period, we also spent a great deal of time ruminating about the weather to come. It becomes easy to fall into the trap of “analysis paralysis” and feel plagued by indecision based on limited information about the weather. Is our crude forecast pulled from our Garmin inReach accurate? What if we’re sitting in a cloud and everything 500 feet above is clear? What if another window never opens and we have to descend back down through crevasses with limited or no visibility? On our second day in the tent, our forecast indicated skies would clear the next day for a limited time, and we knew we had to make the most of it.

We awoke at 4 a.m. to clear skies and frigid temperatures. With clear weather such a rarity in Alaska—especially on Sanford—we knew we had to strike while the iron was hot. Determined to move light and fast, we chose to leave our camp behind and travel as high as we could with only daypacks. This decision also came from a reluctance to move our entire camp higher on the glacier, only to risk being stuck in another whiteout for days. The choice was clear: push as high as possible in a single effort and make the most of the good weather with as much skiing as we could.

As we left camp and headed up the Sheep Glacier, we shared a collective surprise—the snow on the glacier’s surface was soft and boot-deep, ideal conditions for our descent. Upon reaching a plateau below the summit cone, the snow turned firm and wind-drifted—less fun for skiing but easier for breaking trail and incredibly beautiful, etched with curving patterns shaped by the strong westerly winds that typically batter the mountain.

By early afternoon, clouds began to roll in around us, and we contacted our pilot, Jake, to check on the incoming weather. He confirmed that he likely wouldn’t be able to fly for several days but offered to pick us up later that afternoon if we could reach his proposed landing site in time. We decided to take him up on the offer rather than risk a delayed pickup. Transitioning to ski mode and Ian into board mode, we began our descent just as the summit above us disappeared into the clouds. After discussing our descent plan, we enjoyed low-angle sastrugi and powder turns all the way back to camp.

The heavily crevassed section we had ascended days earlier now lay below us, guarding the exit to our pick-up point. It posed just as much of a hazard on the descent as it had on the climb. We faced a decision: left or right. To our skier’s left, we could retrace our route, carefully zigzagging between gaping crevasses and fragile snow bridges. To the right, a long traverse offered the promise of more supportable snow—if we held our line—but came with new risks. The slope was steep enough to avalanche, and a cliff band above added overhead hazard.

After a quick discussion, we committed to the traverse and skied right, spreading out to reduce the risk from both avalanche and falling debris. The decision paid off. We found some of the best turns of the day, gliding past blue ice and carving smooth turns down the glacier toward our runway. All three of us felt mixed emotions as we departed from the glacier earlier than we’d hoped, but were at ease with our decision to escape the incoming weather—and invigorated to plan our next expedition in Alaska. While we didn’t summit Mt. Sanford, our expedition was a success in that we executed it safely and independently. 

As we debriefed over burgers back in Palmer, we reflected on two major takeaways. First, we found it easy to communicate and make decisions together, which kept the expedition feeling smooth and cohesive. This came naturally from our shared background as NOLS mountaineering instructors, giving us a clear and familiar framework for working together in the mountains. Second, we reviewed our big decision-making moments and whether we managed risk appropriately—or if we might have done things differently. We discussed choices such as skiing certain sections of the glacier unroped, choosing not to ascend during low visibility even if it meant forfeiting a summit bid, and ultimately deciding to leave earlier than planned.

It can be hard not to dwell on the what-ifs, but thanks to our strong communication, we were able to discuss decisions in the moment and move forward with choices we all felt comfortable with based on our risk tolerance and abilities. At the end of the day, we had an amazing experience together and all came home safe and excited to teach our next mountain courses for NOLS.

As each of us prepares to teach NOLS students in the coming season, we carry a renewed sense of confidence and competence in the mountains—along with the excitement to keep learning and practicing both our technical and interpersonal skills, as NOLS instructors and in our personal lives.