Yo!
I wrote this story for an assignment and though i'd post up. criticism welcome. I understand the event is quite uneventful but I had a blast writing it. Without further a do.
“If you’re still happy you’re not trying hard enough.” Mark Twight, Climbing’s punk rocking, trouble-making red headed stepchild believes the best climber is the one having the least amount of fun, the polar opposite view of Bozeman legend Alex Lowe. I, on the other hand, spent my teenage years neither having fun nor trying hard; I don’t know which philosophy to subscribe to.
The Lowe philosophy is so much more attractive, but I wonder if it’s possible to be enthusiastic about ice climbing. I might as well try. I woke up at 5 after 6 hours of tossing, turning and apocalyptic thoughts of avalanches and mountain monsters. After forcing down my required half gallon of acidic Western Family coffee, it was time to rally up to Hyalite.
As we arrive at the trailhead I suggest how pleasant our four-mile trek up to the climb will be. This is artificial enthusiasm; I’m really contemplating how much it would cost to hire a porter in Bozeman. After we strap on our weight-weenie skis with our $500 trustifari bindings, we’re off. On the way we one-up each other with our respective tick-lists and in general how awesome we are. Talking about ice climbing is definitely fun.
When we arrive at the Flander’s cirque, the gumption I had earlier from my dosage of college-student coffee turned to alpine angst. As Bud gracefully skinned his way up the lower snow slopes of the gully, I booted my way up with the majesty of a caveman on Ambien. When I arrive at the immaculate belay platform Bud has sculpted for us, I sprawl my gear out with my ‘organization is for Palin supporters’ attitude.
Without consulting me, Bud racks up. We both knew he would lead the crux first pitch; he’s a far more competent climber. As he makes his way up the slightly overhanging curtain of ice, I force out a ‘yee haw.’ What I really mean is ‘do we really have to go up there?’ The curtain is short but unforgiving. Bud’s only mistake was listening to my suggestion to stem on the rock to the left, forcing him to do awkward reaches between stale early season ice and the vertical mud us Bozemanites call rock. Too gripped to shake out, Bud scraps his way over the bulge. I’m sure I was more scared than he; if he had fallen I would have slipped into a deep frenzy of panic, a result of my cognitive shortcomings.
I complain about the ice conditions and the unpleasant gymnastics of the pitch as I’m politely reminded that I’m on top-rope and should ‘shutup and climb.’ Still, I find it unnerving that I’m already this uncomfortable and my lead is still to come. In the eyes of a Twightist, my complaining means that I am climbing really well.
After high fives and exaggerated encouragement exchanged at the belay, Bud mentions something about an anchor, which I quickly dismiss as nonsense. On the second pitch the easy purchase of the ice makes me look better than I am; it feels like vertical hiking. After the initial step I enter the gem of this classic route. I feel weightless as I work my way through the narrow hallway of rock about 4 feet wide. I’m elated not only by the ease of the movement but also the beauty of where I am. My euphoria quickly turns to guilt: I’m obviously not trying harder. I decided it’s time to climb faster, place less gear and nip the joy in the bud. I run the last 30 feet out because I am now too cool to place gear.
The snow slope at the top is the end of the frozen bliss; I slog my way up as fast as I can as to reject any appreciation or sentiment for the beautiful sheet of ice I just ascended. 20 meters up the slope the rope comes taught, I realize this is probably my confused climbing partner. We are exactly seventy meters away from each other and its windy; there won’t be any communication. He’ll have to start climbing. This isn’t right, I obviously missed the anchor and we are now simul-climbing. My last ice screw is a meager 10 cm chunk of steel god knows how far below me. I am now serving as Bud’s top-rope anchor, If he blows the 80 degree ice below ill become a pitiful mass of accelerating jabroni clad in sharp metal and gore-tex.
After fifteen minutes of tug-o-war simul-climbing, I reach a tree that I convince myself has been put there by the god that I don’t believe in. Bud finally gets a belay as he enters the snow slopes and declares that he has found the anchors. His position as my backcountry babysitter is reiterated. I’ve never been good with directions, or listening. I’m like a drunk driver; I put others in danger by way of my childlike egocentrism. At least we made it.
As we ski out of the east fork, I chuckle and hoot as I pull into my ‘Texas tuck” and pray there isn’t anyone skiing up. There isn’t, it’s Monday and no one really climbs here much anyway. The bipolar nature of my climb reminds me of the bipolar climbing philosophies. Today, I felt. I hated and loved and that’s worth it. I negotiated with doubt, hated myself and loved my life. I fear my neuroticism will keep me from being a good climber; I really see it as being easy to please. Fun and Suffering are both critical facets of climbing.
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