Crater Lake Circumnav
Crater Lake Circumnavigation
A Long Walk Around A Big Lake
After the first big descent, I was already in the thick of it—breaking trail through a foot of fresh powder on the steep western slopes of Dutton Cliffs. The morning sun beat down as sweat dripped from my hat, my legs already burning. I checked my watch. Two hours in, barely over three miles covered.
The doubt hit hard. At this rate, I’d be out here far beyond nightfall—that’s unacceptable. Turn around now before you get in too deep. The conditions are slow. You’re moving like a slug. Maybe today is not the day.
But the day was young, and I wasn’t ready to watch this dream slip away. Remember why you’re here! I took a deep breath, put one foot in front of the other, and continued forging my path.
Years in The Making
My first visit to Crater Lake was during the legendary winter of ‘16-17, one of the deepest snow years on record. I spent many days exploring the classic ski tours up The Watchman and Garfield Peak. One day, a park ranger casually mentioned that some skiers circumnavigate the entire lake. The idea lodged itself in my mind immediately. People do that? I knew then and there—I had to. The thought of experiencing Crater Lake in its rawest winter form, fully immersed in its solitude and beauty, became a dream I couldn’t shake.
Year after year, I kept returning to Crater Lake, skiing the same routes, circling the lake on my bike, hiking Garfield Peak and Mount Scott in the summer and fall. And yet, in the back of my mind, the circumnavigation gnawed at me. When are you going to do it? How are you going to do it?
Maybe I’d take my time—spread it over three days, camping in the remote, wind-scoured corners of the rim. Maybe two days, traveling a bit lighter. But as my fitness and skill improved, another idea crept in: What if I just went for it in a single push?
Still, every winter came and went, and I found excuses. The snowpack wasn’t right. I was too busy. Next year would be better. And before I knew it, the snow would melt away, summer wildflowers would bloom, leaving me with nothing but the same promise: I’ll do it next year.
Skiing Garfield Peak in 2017
Crater Lake Rim Ride 2023
Today's The Day
My eyes shot open—2:25 AM. Five minutes before my alarm. No hesitation. I poured some coffee, piled my gear into the car, and hit the road, speeding down Crater Lake Highway toward my favorite national park. The temperature kept plummeting as I gained elevation, bottoming out at 9°F at the rim. Overnight, a bitter north wind had kicked up, whipping ice crystals from the caldera’s steep slopes under starry skies. All those alpine starts as a mountain guide on Mount Shasta had conditioned me for mornings like this—dark, cold, and inhaling oatmeal at an ungodly hour.
At the trailhead, I scrambled up a 15-foot wall of snow, mantling onto the deep winterpack. The lake seemed to mock my feeble headlamp, its beam swallowed by the endless void of the caldera’s steep, unseen edges just meters away. I clicked into my skis, took a steady breath, and pushed off—gliding counterclockwise into the darkness from Rim Village.
Garfield Peak
I chose to go counterclockwise, mainly to tackle the most technical sections while I still had good energy—and before the sun cooked the snow. Garfield, Applegate, Dutton, Cloud Cap, Scott, Llao, Hillman and Watchman are all formidable objectives on their own, but linking them in a single push? That was going to be a challenge. Not only was I aiming to circumnavigate, I had a lofty secondary objective: to climb and ski all eight of the peaks over 8,000′ in the National Park—colloquially know as the 8×8.
The climb up Garfield from the rim gains about 1,000 feet over 1.7 miles—a popular summer hike, but far more daunting in winter. Navigating its 40° icy slopes in complete darkness made for slow, methodical movement. I was grateful for my familiarity with the route, relying heavily on GPS to stay on track. As I climbed higher, the snow hardened beneath me, forcing me to don ski crampons for extra traction.
A few steps later, the snow cracked under my weight. Wind slab… fuck!
Not even 40 minutes in, I was already questioning everything. I’m moving so damn slow. I can’t see anything. There are wind slabs. And I’m already using ski crampons. How the hell am I going to go another 25+ miles?
But just as doubt crept in, the conditions eased. The pre-dawn glow lit up the rim, revealing the vastness of the lake below. The wind slabs seemed isolated to areas protected behind small trees. Keeping a wide berth from the massive cornices, I reached the summit of Garfield Peak at 8,054 feet. Summit #1 in the bag.
First light on the rim, just below the summit of Garfield Peak at 6:22am
My skin track up Garfield Peak taken at 5pm. Wet loose slides were there from the previous day.
Applegate Peak
I needed to move fast to make up for lost time. Ripping my skins off my skis in the frigid north wind, I shivered, desperately wishing the sun would rise faster. I dropped into the gentle eastern slopes of Garfield, gliding toward Applegate Peak and the sun. I hastly transitioned back to skinning and was pleased to find smooth travel—just a few inches of fresh snow over mellow terrain. Finally, I was in the flow.
Thirty minutes later, I reached Summit #2: Applegate Peak (8,126’). As the sun crested the eastern horizon, blood rushed back into my fingers. I ripped skins again and traversed to Applegate’s eastern ridge, peering down a steep couloir bathed in golden alpenglow.
What’s the snow like? Firm? Wind-loaded? Powder?
I dropped in cautiously, my skis chattering on the scoured entrance. A few tentative turns—and then relief. The snow softened into stable, two-day-old powder. I let out a big “Yeeewwwwww!” and opened it up, carving big, fast turns toward Sun Notch, hugging the towering cliffs hanging off Applegate’s east face. Back in the cold north wind, I slapped skins on once again and began the trudge toward Dutton Cliffs, eager to generate some body heat.
Summit of Applegate Peak just after sunrise
Descent down the Sunrise Chute off Applegate Peak
Dutton Cliff
The sun-protected slopes of Dutton Cliff held deep, cold powder—great for skiing, brutal for trail breaking. This 1,200-foot climb was grindingly slow, laying down switchback after switchback, doubt started creeping in again.
Are you sure you can do this, Mikey? Two hours in and only a few miles covered? If this pace keeps up, there’s no way you’ll finish in a day.
As I slogged upward, the headwall of Dutton loomed; steep, imposing, and offering no easy way through. To my right, rocky cliffs blocked easy passage. To my left, a 2,000′ drop straight into the lake. My only option was straight ahead—threading the needle between consequential terrain.
The snow firmed up as I climbed higher, scoured by the wind. I hastily strapped on my ski crampons, hoping for better purchase. Three laboring steps later—slip. FUCK!
Frustrated, gripped, and burning energy fast, I knew there was only one way up: bootpack. I quickly racked my skis onto my pack and started wallowing straight up the headwall. The surface was frozen solid making it too slick to skin. But the crust was unsupportable underfoot, collapsing to my mid-thigh with every step. I clawed at rocks and rotten tree limbs, using whatever I could to haul myself higher. Without boot crampons, I was aggressively kicking steps, desperate for a solid foothold.
Finally, after 15 minutes of struggle, I took the final steps onto the summit of Dutton Cliff (8,147’). Summit #3.
Skin track up Dutton Cliff
Summit of Dutton Cliff after a short but laboring bootpacking
Eating a snack on the summit, I gazed east toward Mount Scott—much farther away than I’d hoped. Reality set in.
What’s more important? The 8×8 or the circumnav? Because you’re not doing both.
I knew my priority. Getting around the lake was the primary objective. I let go of the idea of skiing Mount Scott—its summit sat two miles back from the rim, adding hours to an already long day. Another time.
But first, I had to get down the east face of Dutton.
The upper slopes were smooth and cruisy, offering some of the best skiing of the day. But that changed fast. The lower third boasts steep, craggy, and serious terrain—exactly as I’d expected. I had studied this section for hours, analyzing maps, searching for a viable couloir that would lead cleanly to the rim road. I knew this was the crux. If I made it through, it would be (hopefully) smooth sailing from there.
Fresh tracks on the upper East face of Dutton Cliff
Searching for the couloir to the bottom of Dutton Cliff
Peering through the trees at my first option, I was immediately taken back—dripping icicles, rock steps, and no clean way through. No-go. I had one more shot at a couloir just skier’s left, so I sidestepped that way.
Peering cautiously down the line, I was worried about what I might find. Big sigh of relief; it went! No cliffs, no mandatory drops. But it did look loaded.
I edged cautiously into the entrance. Whoosh. A small wind slab released and ran into an old-growth tree halfway down the line. Alone, far from any immediate help, I knew I had little margin for error. I ski-cut the entire couloir and felt better about the stability. Took another deep breath, and pointed my skis downhill. Another big “Yeeewwww!” as I snow sprayed all around me. Deep, stable powder all the way to the road.
Looking back up at what I had just skied, I attempted to catch my breath.
Was I good? Or was I lucky?
Slab avalance in the couloir
Looking up at the couloir from the East Rim Drive at the base of Dutton Cliffs
Cloud Cap
As the adrenaline wore off, I settled into a steady rhythm during the three-mile skin toward Cloud Cap. The pressure of skiing Mount Scott had lifted and I was happy to be in benign terrain. I was officially on the east side. Still breaking trail, but the snow wasn’t as deep and the travel much easier. The terrain mellowed, and for the first time in hours, I could soak in the views—breathtaking vistas of Crater Lake and Mount Scott.
Looking closer at Mount Scott, I saw what I already suspected—heavily wind-loaded slopes. Another confirmation that today was not the day to ski it.
I glided through pristine alpine meadows dotted with withered, stunted whitebark pines. The snow was crisscrossed with animal tracks, weaving from tree to tree, but I wasn’t lucky enough to spot even a squirrel. Just ravens—ominous, squawking, watching, hoping I’d leave them a crumb.
At 8,065 feet, I topped out on my fourth summit of the day: Cloud Cap. Five hours and nine miles in… I wasn’t even close to halfway.
I needed to pick up the pace, but first, I needed a real break. I pulled off my boots, letting my feet breathe, and took a few bites of a burrito my partner, Emily, had made for me. A moment of gratitude! I smiled knowing she was tracking me all day through my Garmin inReach, watching my every step. I had just enough service to send her a text update and fire off a few photos.
Taking a break and enjoying the views from Cloud Cap
Mount Scott 8,934′
Walking Meditation
But there was no time to linger. I reluctantly slid my damp socks back into my boots, ripped my skins, and pushed off, skiing north. To my surprise, the snow was perfect—deep, soft powder, mellow turns, and jaw-dropping views of the impossibly blue lake.
This. This was what I came for.
Bobbing in and out of the trees, hooting and hollering, I was locked in—flow state. After nearly two miles of effortless descent, I had made up significant time, and a surge of optimism hit me. My perspective shifted—I could finally see how far I’d come.
Garfield, Applegate, Dutton, and Cloud Cap stood behind me, clear and distant. Ahead, my final challenges loomed—Llao Rock, Hillman, The Watchman. For the first time all day, this felt possible.
Fun powder turns along the rim. Following the animal tracks!
Attempting to ignore the temptation of skiing to the lake…
But as I transitioned back to skinning, a voice in my head snapped me back to reality.
“You’re not even close to done. Anything can happen. Don’t get complacent. FOCUS!“
I locked back in. Every step deliberate. A walking meditation.
I don’t like listening to music or podcasts on big days like this—it pulls me out of the present moment. I embrace the solitude, the eerie silence, the rhythmic breath and metronome of my step. This is when I have my best thoughts and biggest realizations.
Four miles later, I found a calm, sunny ledge, pulled off my boots once again, and plopped down on a rock. Another small reset before the next push.
I checked the map—three more miles and 1,000 feet of climbing to the top of Llao Rock. I felt a surge of excitement. I’d stared at this massive remnant of Mount Mazama countless times, always dreaming of standing on top.
Airing the dogs out on the East side. This played a huge roll in staying blister-free all day.
Stellar views from Grotto Cove
Llao Rock
But that excitement faded fast.
As I moved back toward the west side of the lake, the deep trailbreaking returned. Fatigue set in. The climb became a mental battle. Keep the negativity out. Remember why you’re here.
You’re here to grow, to evolve, to see what you’re truly capable of. Not just in the mountains, but in life.
As I slogged upward through the powder, sweeping views of Mount Thielsen, Mount Bachelor, and the Sisters stretched to the north. Gratitude hit me like a wave. My parents.My family. My friends. My partner. So many amazing people had supported me to be here today. My throat tightened. My eyes welled up.
But I had to pull it together.
“One step at a time, Mikey. Don’t fall apart now. This isn’t over. You need to focus. Dig deep!“
Breaking trail up Llao Rock. Mount Bailey, Diamond Peak, Mount Thielsen to the North
Llao Rock, Wizard Island, and Mount McLoughlin in the distance
Then, suddenly—movement.
I looked up and saw a silhouette. A person? On Llao Rock? No way. Then another. And another. Five people stood on the summit!
I was shocked. Who else would be out here?
Pushing as fast as I could at mile 16 and 6,000 feet of climbing, I caught them at my fifth summit: Llao Rock (8,049’).
It was a group of skiers from Bend, Oregon. They had snowmobiled in from the North Entrance (cheaters), then skinned up Llao Rock. When they heard I had started that morning and was circumnavigating the lake in a single push, they were equally shocked.
After swapping stories, I ripped my skins once again and pointed my skis west, toward Hillman Peak. I was getting closer and closer, but my energy was fading fast. My legs felt heavy as the afternoon sun slid lower and lower.
Final skin on the wind scouted ridge of Llao Rock
Llao rock behind me, skinning towards Hillman Peak
Hillman Peak
The descent off Llao Rock was mellow—a welcome relief after three straight hours of skinning since my last descent. As I moved toward Hillman, I debated my approach. Sticking to my secondary objective of the 8×8, I figured I’d at least attempt its 8,151’ summit. 7×8 is not bad!
But like Mount Scott, Hillman was steep and looked wind-loaded. I kept climbing up the ridge, staying out of rockfall hazard, trying to formulate a plan. Now at mile 20, I had enough awareness to recognize that fatigue was setting in, and my decision-making abilities might be slipping.
I wasn’t interested in navigating complex terrain this late in the day.
With uncertainty about the snowpack and no idea what conditions might be like skiing off the south side, I bailed just 200 feet from the summit. Instead, I ski traversed across the north bowl, around the west ridge, and onto the sun-baked southern face.
When I saw rime ice shedding from trees and rollerballs cascading down the slopes, I knew I had made the right call. With effortless gliding and minimal turning, I cruised down to the base of The Watchman—my final climb of the day.
Climbing towards the summit of Hillman Peak
Looking North to Hillman Peak from The Watchman. Four skiers climbing up my down track… LOL
The Watchman
Finally… HUMANS!
Like most backcountry skiers, I don’t usually seek out company in the mountains, but after so many hours alone with my thoughts, I was psyched to hear about someone else’s adventure.
A group of four skiers, loaded down with oversized packs, boasted about their attempt to circumnavigate the lake, never bothering to ask where I had come from or what I had done. I chuckled to myself and kept moving into my tenth hour.
After more than 20 miles of defining my own route, I finally found a skin track. No more breaking trail. I followed the well-trodden path slowly up The Watchman, grateful, but legs and lungs still burning. At its summit, an old fire lookout stood guard—a rime-blasted relic perched on the rim. A few final switchbacks, and I reached Summit #6: The Watchman (8,013’).
The ski down, like everything else on this tour, wouldn’t come easy. Steep, no-fall-zone terrain coated with a robust breakable crust. My quads burned as I picked my way down, skiing cautiously, staying in control.
With more effort than I’d care to admit, I finally reached the rim road once again, the final descent behind me.
I knew I had a skin track leading to the parking lot, a few sips of water left, and only two miles to go. My body ached, but my mind felt strong. All that was left was to walk a bit further.
View from The Watchman—soaking in how far I had come.
Challenging skiing on variable snow and tired legs on the south face of the Watchman.
The Final Push
The finish line was near, but the real lessons from this experience were only beginning.
Eight years of planning, dreaming, and second-guessing. And now, it was done.
Why did I do this?
It wasn’t about ego. It wasn’t about saying, Look at what I did! It was about testing myself in the rawest way possible. Pushing my skills, my endurance, and my mind when everything felt uncertain.
How do you respond when things don’t go your way? When exhaustion creeps in, when fear and doubt arise, when the outcome is unknown… What does that inner voice say? What do you say back?
Big days in the mountains shift your perspective. They strip away the noise, leaving only clarity, humility, and the raw, undeniable truth. They remind us of who we are and who we want to be.
Ultimately, I do this to inspire others.
These thoughts swirl in my mind as I see my car all alone in the parking lot. Damn, I did it!
Challenge is relative, and it’s up to you to find that threshold that puts you deep in the growth zone.
When you finally confront that fear and face it head on, you remember what life is really all about.
The final crux—descending the snowbank!
Final metrics on the day, ready to take my boots off!
