8 minute read
THAT’S THE WAY THE ICE CRUMBLES
By Nathan Herzog
It was a cold, coooold weekend outside of La Pine, OR. I guess that’s sort of a prerequisite for a story involving ice climbing. It was the beginning of March 2019, and word on the street was that conditions were primed for the waterfalls just downstream from Paulina Lake to freeze over. Even better, there were a couple of bluebird days being forecast for the weekend! With Oregon’s relative lack of ice climbing opportunities and ice being on the bucket list for several folks in our adventure crew, we were stoked to load up and caravan over from Portland.
We decided to camp at the trailhead at Ten Mile Sno-Park so we could get an early start and maximize our time adventuring. The lows were around 10 degrees that weekend. My girlfriend (now wife) and I had the relative luxury of sleeping in our beat-up Ford camper van. A few others slept in the back of their Subarus, and then there were two that decided to brave the elements and test cold-weather winter camping. One slept out in the open in a sleeping bag on a Tyvex insulated pad, while another slept in an insulated hammock. Brrrr.
In the morning, we took time getting our gear sorted, having some breakfast, and trying to warm up with a hot drink. We started the morning with nine in our party, with more than half skinning up the mildly inclined path and the rest of us plodding along in snowshoes. The skis might not have sped things up too much on the way in, but we sure were cursing at their speed on the way back later in the day.
The 2.5-mile hike in is pretty standard, relatively flat with just a mild slope. There was a small stream crossing just before arriving at the bowl where the waterfalls are located. We crossed on a snow-covered log. One team member slipped and dunked a leg in the stream. He was already battling a cough and decided to end the trip early and head back to the cars and then back home. Another team member straddled the log and kind of shimmied across. This was funny to watch—but hey, at least they didn’t dunk a leg!
Access to the falls is from above. There are two waterfalls on perpendicular faces of the canyon where the river above splits into two separate channels before tumbling over the cliffs edge. One of the falls already had a party engaged in a climb. With the size of our group, we wanted to get started setting up so that we could cycle through as many of us as possible.
The waterfall that remained open had a lot of running water in the main channel but appeared to have a solid column of ice off to the right side. This was concerning, but the team decided to account for the questionable ice’s sketch factor by designing a belay system that could quickly transition from belaying from above to hauling. The entire team stayed up above the waterfall, out of harm’s way, except for the climber (who was lowered in from the anchor).
The team spent a lot of time talking through setting up the anchor, how to make the transition from belay to haul, and making sure everyone understood their roles. Finally, it was time to lower the first person down to the bottom. Everything went off without a hitch (so to speak). The first climber made it down to the bottom, climbed the route, and topped out. The next few team members also climbed without incident, and we had the opportunity to test the anchor’s haul capabilities. Since it was the first time being on ice for most of us, it was easy to get pumped. For a few team members, we transitioned from belay to haul and successfully hauled them up the rest of the route to the top when needed.
About half the group had the opportunity to climb, and then finally… finally…it was my turn!
I pumped myself up while being lowered down. I reached the bottom and pulled out my ice tools. The team called down that the belay was set, and I was ready to go. I channeled Sylvester Stallone’s Cliffhanger. I was cruising.
Thwack. Thwack. Step. Step.
“This is AMAZING! I’m nearly at the top!” I said to myself.
And that’s when it happened…
One foul swing of the tool. A loud CRAAAACK—and then silence for a moment as everything slipped away, like a curtain released from its hangers crumpling towards the floor. The instant stretched, a surreal feeling as though the world itself dropped away and there was only me and nothing, floating…
Then my mind came racing back.
A moment of panic.
“What just happened? Is the rope holding? Am I OK?!” I asked myself as I heard the wall of ice crash to the ground below me. I finally recognized what had happened. It only took a moment to recover from the panic and realize that I was unscathed. A big smile crossed my face and I let out a laugh, then a “WOOO!” to let the onlookers above the rim of the canyon know that I was OK.
I blew my emergency whistle, and the team above me quickly transitioned and hauled me up to the top, where they clapped me on the back and gave me a hug.
In hindsight, I am certain that I was overzealous in my tool swings and crampon kicks. Having never climbed ice before, I had no concept that the condition of the ice might dictate the quality of the swings indicated for a clean ascent. With solid, chunky ice you might need to throw some muscle into your swings. With suspect or potentially deteriorating ice, all that is necessary might be some mild chipping or ginger placement of the pick and spikes.
But first things first: risk assessment, injury avoidance, and contingency planning. The only reason an attempt on that pillar was even considered was because we had no desire or plan to lead a route. Keeping the team up above the climber—safe and out of harm’s way—was the first of a few things we did right. We also made sure that there was no traffic below the route; no other climbing teams, no snowshoers, and no other winter wonderland seekers. The ability to quickly convert the belay to a haul system was key to our contingency planning. The fact that we tested this capability before my mishap gave me confidence that the system was going to work after things started to go south.
But one of the most important factors of all with this generally inexperienced group of aspiring ice ascenders was that two members of our team were experienced members of a mountain rescue group. They led the risk assessment, designed the belay system, and walked everyone through step-by-step how to approach the climb. Without their experience and leadership, this would have been a dangerous endeavor indeed.
Knowing what I know now, would I have done anything differently? That’s a tough question. I wouldn’t have changed anything about our preparation or the decisions we made about how to approach or protect the climb. What I would have changed is how I personally went about using my tools to ascend the ice. I think I likely could have gotten to the top without incident had I been more light-handed with my swings and kicks. But would I have made a different decision about whether to pursue the climb at all? That’s a really tough call. Watching everything drop away and time seeming to momentarily suspend was one of the most surreal experiences that I can recall. The fact that no one was injured and that we all walked away with a great story to tell certainly helps tip the scale more in the direction of not wanting to change a thing.
What I can say is that it didn’t discourage us much. The next day we regrouped, made our way back to the bowl, and attempted the other (much more stable and not in the least bit sketchy) ice column. We all made it up that route as far as our fatigued muscles would carry us with no additional incidents to report.
