PHOTO:
4/14/2026 // Bucket List
Digital // Rico GRII
Just about ten years before standing on top of Mt. Hood, I was sitting in the Timberline parking lot wondering what it'd be like to stand up there.
I can’t quite remember the exact moment, but I still remember that feeling of desire. At the end of each session, everyone would gather in the parking lot waiting for a shuttle to show up and take us all back down to camp. While we waited, we’d often find ourselves sprawled out out on the ground replaying the day in our heads and talking about about everything we had ridden, what we wanted to try tomorrow, and just taking in the whole experience of snowboarding in June, at one of the most prominent summer spots in snowboarding. A handful our camp crew that assembled during week 2 of camp, didn’t grow up around incredible mountains ranges or volcanoes fot that matter. We had rope tows, rails, and anywhere from 50-500ft of elevation change, certainly not 11,000+ foot summits and 6,500ft decendable lines.
The feeling never left over the years, but I also didn’t pressure myself to make it happen. At sixteen I had no mountaineering experience, no understanding of what it would take to reach the summit, and honestly no business being up there. It was never really a question of if, more a question of when and who I would eventually find myself doing it with.
As the years passed, life unfolded in a way that slowly brought that goal closer. I moved west for school. I spent summers shooting photos on Palmer Glacier. I bought spring passes and made trips back to Hood whenever I could. I spent time climbing in Leavenworth, getting comfortable with heights and exposure. I rode steeper terrain around the Pacific Northwest, in Canada, and during trips abroad. I spent countless days hiking with a camera on my back, chasing photos in places that required a little more effort to get into and out of.
None of it was done with the summit of Hood in mind. It was just life happening around snowboarding.
A few weeks ago the idea resurfaced. For the first time, I realized I might actually be in a position to make it happen. Around the same time, I saw that my friend Marissa Krawchek—better known as Big Mountain Marissa—had just summited. It had been a low snow year and I knew the window to get up there would be shorter than normal, so I gave her a call.
Being the badass that she is, she was down to do it again.
The following Saturday we left the climbing lot around 9:30 in the morning armed with splitboards, crampons, ice axes, about two pounds of gummy bears, and a plan to be standing on the summit sometime that afternoon. The climb up to Palmer was straightforward. Being such a low snow year, we were able to bootpack sections that would normally still be covered. For me, that terrain felt familiar. I'd spent summers riding and shooting photos around Hood, and Palmer marked the furthest point I'd ever gone on the mountain. Though This time, instead of turning around and lapping the chair, we kept going up.
Above Palmer, the mountain began to change. The snow firmed up, the crampons went on, and the ice axes came out. We worked our way up Hogsback and continued toward Old Chute as the conditions kept aligning in our favor. The climbing became more physical, especially during the final push, where every step seemed to demand a little more effort than the last. At a certain point, you stop thinking about how tired you are. The weight of the pack, the elevation gain, the effort—it all just becomes part of the experience. The only thing left to do is take another step.
Even then, I wasn't celebrating early. I don't think I fully comprehended what making it would be like until I could see the crest of the summit ridge. Marissa had been there before and I trusted her completely. She helped with climbing technique, pacing, and energy management throughout the day, but more than anything, she made the whole thing feel normal.
Then, suddenly, we were there.
Standing on top of Mt. Hood was one of those moments that is difficult to process while it's happening. I knew where I was, but at the same time, I don't think I fully understood it. The views stretched across the Pacific Northwest, with volcanoes lining the horizon in every direction. Around the same time we stood on the summit, a friend of mine was descending Mt. Adams after summiting earlier that morning. It felt like one of those days where everything somehow lined up. It was magic.
After spending some time on top attempting to take it all in, it was time to ride.
Marissa suggested the West Chutes, which would become the most exposed line I had ever snowboarded. Looking down from the top, I was definitely nervous. It was steep, consequential terrain and there was no pretending otherwise.
The first few turns demanded my full attention. Then the rhythm settled in. The thing we all fell in love with. Doing the thing. Hop turn, glide, hop turn, glide. Before long, we were through the upper sections and traversing toward the next zone. After another technical stretch, the mountain opened up and about 3,000 vertical feet of summer corn snow looked back up at us.
About six hours after leaving the lot, we found ourselves sprawled out in the parking lot—the same parking lot where ten years earlier I had sat after riding, waiting for the shuttle back to camp and looking up at the summit.
This time, the view was a little different.