Photo by Avalanche
Always An Adventure
The Climb: PART II BY AVALANCHE
COMMITTED TO ASCENDING THE FULL LENGTH OF THE ICE GULLY, the climbing becomes an exercise in moving meditation. Each tool placement and every step with the crampons needs to be precise and solid; the ice is bare; little to no snow covers it. No rope, no belayer, just me on the mountain, with two ice tools and a pair of crampons to provide a tenuous grip on the frozen medium. The ice is a bit less solid than I remember from a previous trip here, now flakier and more easily broken. The grade increases to about 60 degrees, slightly less steep than a properly deployed extension ladder. But most extension ladders aren’t made of ice, with a 1,500 foot elevation gain. A mistake here would be final. Intrusive thoughts about the grade, fatigue, and any possible errors get firmly pushed aside. As mountaineers know, once you start thinking about “down,” that’s where you’re going to go, willingly or otherwise. I push on, upward, keeping a rhythm between steps and tool placement. Each placement occupies my full attention. Ice climbing unexpectedly gives way to wallowing in snow, with rock underneath the snow. The top of the gully is only about 20 feet away. I carefully tread my way through the deep powder; there used to be ice here. Suddenly, I’m at the top of the notch, between a tower to my right, and the way to the main summit on the left. Very intense emotions arise, feelings that I don’t have time to process. The wind is slapping me around, the sun is rising, and I still need to get down 12 | CROSSROADS | FEBRUARY 2020
before the wind peels me off the ice, or melting ice begins to send rocks and debris down the gully. Now the hardest part begins. An anchor consisting of a single hex (an asymmetrical six-sided hollow tube) wedged under a rock, with a hardware store chain link is the lone existing rappel point. I add my own hex and locking carabiner, clip the rope through it and into my belay device, and test it with body weight. It’s all good. I snap a few quick photos, and send a satellite check-in message, but the increasing wind buffeting puts an end to my reverie; it’s time to move. After rappelling one rope length down, I begin to set up an anchor in the ice, attempting to build a V-thread anchor, a mildly complicated procedure consisting of boring two holes in the ice and looping a sling through the holes. Tired, scared, fumbling with gear, and beginning to get pelted with wind-driven small rocks, I decide to run in a screw and rappel from it, skipping the V-thread construction, leaving the $50 piece of hardware in place. After a second rope-length rappel down, I put the rope back in my pack and begin down-climbing. I again rest on the small rock outcropping where I stopped on the way up. The toughest part of the route behind me, with the adrenaline beginning to ebb, I eat a couple spoonful’s of coffee grounds, and wash them down with some water. Gritty, but chemical assistance is welcome at this point. Down climbing is less physically demanding than ascending, but mental fatigue is the biggest
threat now. Continuing down, the intensive moving meditation practice continues. Knowing that safety – and rest - is approaching, it would be easy to start to hurry and cut corners. This is still a “no mistake zone”; stepplant, step-plant, each movement mindful and deliberate. Once out of the steep gully and back into the main couloir, the deeper snow provides a margin of safety and comfort. It’s still several hundred vertical feet down, and each movement continues to be deliberate; step-plant, step-plant. Eventually, I’m back where I first geared up, and I drop my pack and sit down. I made it. After shedding gear and clothing, I make my way back down the basin to camp. A few surviving wildflowers colorfully cling to life despite the early-winter conditions. The rising wind and high clouds promise more winter weather, soon. I stumble in to camp, completely spent. The muscle aches and fatigue are no longer masked by adrenaline and the sense of accomplishment. It hurts to walk from camp to get water. It hurts to lie on the sleeping bag. I try to eat, but can’t. This sensation is noticeably worse than the fatigue that follows running a marathon; and it is absolutely worth it. next action; a storm is approaching soon. If I am going to climb, this is the day. The warm sleeping bag beckons, as the previous days’ hiking to this spot left me tired and sore - a rest day is quite appealing. Knowing t
