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Back on the Sharp End

After a Fall in the Mountains

By William Bevans

I climbed smoothly and efficiently through the initial ice bulges on what started out as a bumpy cauliflower pitch of AI3.  Not long into my lead on the first technical pitch, I came to a small ledge and took that opportunity to shake my arms out and rest while I looked up for the line of least resistance.  It was early morning and the sun just peeked over the horizon.  I was perched on the beautiful and tough East Face of Mt. Kidd in the northern Canadian Rockies.  The air was dry and cold.  Light winds raked the face with snow that had fallen from the prior day.  The feeling of being an climber high up on such an amazing line in that setting was a very visceral experience.  With my thoughts collected and a small recharge of energy, I moved off the ledge and into a small chimney.  I worked the chimney with a series of stems, being content and focused in the moment; finding comfort in the noise of clanging metal from a full rack of screws and ice tools.  I laid solid foot placements with my mono-points, working the cracked limestone well, continuing to move well and without issue; and then suddenly, it just happened.  I looked down and saw I was quite a distance from my last piece; I then looked up at the remainder of the chimney. It looked grim.  What began as good, solid ice thinned into a translucent coating frozen to the rock; verglas.  I could see the green lichen underneath the clear coat.  Nothing was protectable.  I had one leg loaded onto a mono point, my other leg fully extended keeping my stem position. I knew I couldn’t hold it for much longer and I knew I couldn’t down climb.  

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It’s coming.  Soon it will be the end of October.  The sky will be getting dark early, the air will be crisp and we will be waking up to frost all over everything.  This combination sparks New England climbers to morph and begin preparing for the ice season ahead.  Whatever we did all summer will slowly go to the wayside; we’ll begin scouting cliffs, sharpening our metal, pouring over weather maps and waiting for that steady spell of cold. The winter climbing community will awaken from months of slumber to make trips into the high ravines to see if Pinnacle Gully is in or wait to see who is brave enough to scrap the Black Dike first.  Shortly, most of us will be sitting at our 9-5 and get that text from our partner, “You think it’s in? You wanna go?” The beginning of many of our weekend or midweek warrior epics will be here before you know it.  


Last season, I saw some amazing climbing feats go down; ones that I wish I could have been a part of but ultimately decided I couldn’t be.  It was never easy to volley the text back to my partner and admit my truth: “Sorry, just not feeling it.” or “I just can’t do it.”  That was the first winter in over two decades of climbing where I had to turn down a number of trips.  I knew I didn’t possess the head game required to climb at those high levels.    

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East Face of Mt Kidd, Alberta, Canadian Rockies

East Face of Mt Kidd, Alberta, Canadian Rockies

It was November 2016.  We were in the Canadian Rockies.  The season was still young, and like any of us, I was trying to shake out the cobwebs and get on some good pumpy alpine ice.  In the Can Rocks, it’s imaginably cold, there isn’t much daylight, the approaches are long, the mountain weather is serious, the terrain is highly technical and the climbing is tough as shit.  You can easily see why climbers that hail from this region are absolute beasts.  We drove along the dark, cold and snowy I-93 Icefield Parkway just outside Banff.  It was some obscure hour in the morning and a natural silence filled our drive.  On our docket was the East Face of Mt. Kidd, which may only have seen one successful winter ascent.  I found myself trying to get my head straight.  ‘Am I gonna be ok? Am I fit enough? Am I really prepared on all fronts to bivy a night out if need be?  What the fuck am I actually doing here?  Why am I not surfing in Costa? How bad do I really want this? Does this just sound like a good, bad idea?’  I found myself waging the proverbial alpine war, asking myself the tough questions I rather just avoid.  You don’t know what’s coming.  You don’t even know if it is climbable.  You basically have to be as fit as possible and try to battle up it first go the best you can.

“I was surrounded by verglas and caught tight inside this chimney.  My eyes moved over every inch of rock and ice as tried to make sense of every possible move sequence I could commit to until I was in a spot of safety.”

Questions unanswered, I began the approach with my partner, working as smartly and efficiently as we could, as there wasn’t much in the way of a trail.  It was dark and still very cold out.  No matter how much we tried to keep our packs light, they still felt heavy.  My body was trying to acclimate to the aches of climbing after a long summer of surfing.  Moving along, we tried to make sense of a path by connecting obscure recesses of dirt between patches of fresh snow.  I knew if we just got off the trail a little bit, it would set our game off and we’d start doubting things.  The calm pre-dawn was interrupted suddenly by an avalanche barreling down the south face of Kidd.  Although there was nothing to be seen, the sound was unmistakable.  It took a minute, but we shook it off and started moving again.  We crossed glacial fed creeks, and trekked in the forest along beautiful, massive cedars and larches as the smell of fresh pine filled the air.  We started to feel our engagement in this mission come to life.  Our senses filled with adventure and peace from the natural beauty around us.  Once the light broke, we found ourselves greeted by the intimidating East Face towering over us in full winter ware.  The approach was behind us, and it was time to get real as we started the technical terrain.      

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Climbing light ice in Mt. Blaine Canyon

Climbing light ice in Mt. Blaine Canyon

As climbers, we are interested in the grades or ratings of our climbs for they allow us to gauge our ability and give us a somewhat quantitative measure in our advances.  We also want to get better and climb harder.  Like many young budding ice climbers, I was quick to work up to WI3s and 4s but truth be told it would be many years, hundreds of routes and countless hard lessons before I climbed into the next realm of WI5.  Any climber can attest that between these two grades, the parameters change significantly and I would certainly attest that the head scare factor significantly increases in that jump.  Being a good climber is one thing; we all know those who climb well have skill, sound technique, and usually an above average degree of fitness.  But what does it actually take to climb larger objectives with significant difficulties?  Arguably, a climber’s mental strength and conditioning is usually the single most important factor in their potential and their capacity to be successful on advanced difficult climbs.   The training regimen or composition of what makes a mentally strong alpinist is not completely understood or it is esoteric at best.  A climber with advanced mental conditioning who has committed to creating a bulletproof head is capable of solving complex problems while staying task focused, operating in pretty terrifying conditions all while remaining calm.

 

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I was surrounded by verglas and caught tight inside this chimney.  My eyes moved over every inch of rock and ice as tried to make sense of every possible move sequence I could commit to until I was in a spot of safety.  Committing, I went for the “do or die” move. Then, I caught a little spindrift and goofed my placements.  I remember hearing metal clang all over like wind chimes while I fell.  Several meters of air time passed me by before I bounced off my rest ledge crushing my shoulder.  The ledge slowed my fall, but I continued down another 10 meters until I finally, just stopped falling.  Hanging there, I remember doing a quick motor drill like, move toes, move fingers, blink, blink, you good? I’m good. I’m good!  No major injuries, a few cuts and the adrenaline flowing hard.  Now what?  Head game damaged, ego beat up a bit and feeling a little humble, I pick myself up and my partner and I limped it back out to the car.  Hiking out, I began thinking of the consequences should things have ended up worse.  What if I couldn’t walk out?  What if this? What if that?

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Mental conditioning could be the single most difficult trait for a climber to improve on.  This is especially true after a serious accident, as our climbing psyche can be left damaged, weak or fragile.  This is the side of alpinism that we tend to glance over; the psychological and the mental strength dimension of being a climber and specifically, getting back on the sharp end of the rope after an accident.  Sometimes our egos get in the way and we don’t talk through those issues.  I didn’t really know the extent of how was I affected by my fall until I went climbing in Mt. Blaine Canyon the next day.  I get in, everything is looking good; nice grade 3 cruiser.  I hop on, start climbing and a few feet up it all starts coming back. I fire in a screw and signal to my partner, “Just lower me.”  This would be my head for most of the remainder of the season.  At this point, after so many years, countless trips, expeditions, big walls, alpine assaults, and high altitude objectives where I enjoyed the complex head game of being an alpinist, the incredible focus climbing gave me; it all seemed over.  After my fall, I got my first taste in what it is like to have lost my head game.

“Years later, I still remember that day vividly and respectfully consider it one of the most important lessons I have ever learned; acknowledging and respecting where your head is while climbing.”
How do you get your mental game back once you feel it slipping away? A few days later, right across the way from my mishap, in Ghost River Valley, a local climber fell 40 meters on the climb Kemosabe (W4).  Luckily his partner, a physician, was able to  stabilize him to the best of his ability and initiate a cooperative air rescue.  I was deeply moved by this accident as a 40 meter fall is no joke and it was close in time and location to where I fell.  He and I stayed in contact throughout the year and we spoke recently about re-evaluating how much risk we are willing to put into climbing.  We discussed how similarly our paths forward would be; focusing on moderate climbing with much less emphasis on difficult routes and naturally working back up into difficult routes down the road.  Climbing used to be a major part of who I am and a significant priority in my life but as I approach this upcoming season, I’m seeking a healthier balance.  I need to acknowledge that I recently kissed the edge of what could have been a much more serious accident.  As for retraining the mental strength required to climb such lines, a good start for me is not forcing anything and to trust the natural process.

Rescue on Kemosabe

Rescue on Kemosabe. Courtesy of Kananaskis Country Public Safety Section Rescue

An incident that touched closer to home was when highly respected and accomplished Adirondack guide Matt Horner took a serious 20 meter fall last winter shattering several bones in his face.  Matt has rebounded quickly and in recent conversation stated he is eager to get back on the ice anticipating only minor tweaks in his game like placing more pro, climbing more cautiously but ultimately no major plans but to go with the flow.  

The first major incident where I witnessed a partner lose his head game was a few years ago on an expedition.  My partner was an accomplished climber, having ascents on several of the world’s great difficult lines.  He is humble, smart, fit and was destined to be a natural and successful leader on our climb.  We climbed together for a solid month and I believed we would work seamlessly together to succeed in our upcoming trip.  After so much work and several weeks on the go, we finally made it to base camp and we were ready to climb.  In Himalayan expedition climbing it is mandatory to complete paperwork regarding the disposal of your body should an accident occur resulting in death.  It’s actually quite a head trip to fill out.  As we stood staring at the 7,000-meter Himalayan beast in the face, he simply said to us that this wasn’t his trip and he was out.  It was the first time I saw someone back down like this, a career defining trip left to the wayside; a sixth sense telling him to walk away.  Years later, I still remember that day vividly and respectfully consider it one of the most important lessons I have ever learned; acknowledging and respecting where your head is while climbing.  

A mentor imparted on me that climbing in the mountains is really all about how much you are willing to suffer and the answer to that is all in your head.  I never really understood that until I started to put together the common themes among my trips; shivering all night in a bivy, eating tasteless gruel day after day, post hole, soul sucking marches across summit fields, being scared shitless 30 feet above your last piece,  freezing on a belay ledge and hoping your partner is down to rope gun the crux.  Anybody who has done this type II kind of climbing knows that it’s a very deep, inward experience and it’s barely as romantic as it appears on Instagram.  It is the type of grind we as climbers are proud of, that gives us character and always has us coming back for more.  Everyone has their different reasons why they climb, but our common thread is found in our processes.  No matter what discipline you climb in, no matter where in the world you climb, climbers across the world speak the same language.  You can climb anywhere in the world and most outings begin and end with striking similarity; morning coffee, catch-up on the approach, a stoked first tool placement, enjoying hard earned views and who ever guns the crux drinks for free that night.  For me, many of the toughest and grueling experiences I have been lucky to be a part of have forged the strongest relationships in my life.  The dedication to our craft arguably makes our collected commitment to alpinism one of the greatest activities in the world.  Co-workers say to me “You’re crazy doing that.” I say “You’re crazy, you watch football all day Sunday.” I really don’t know any other way so I guess crazy is all relative.  So as the saying goes “most people prefer comfort forgetting that difficulty is what actually nourishes the human spirit.”

The season is starting soon and we will all be shaking out our summer cobwebs, checking conditions, pondering where the ice is good and trying to put all of the data together to plan a good, safe outing.  For newer climbers, trust the process, stay patient and allow your learning to flow through the high and the low points.  If you come up short on a climb, don’t let it shake you, everyone has been there.  Re-think a different, smarter approach.  Learn from your mistakes and always be open to learning from others mistakes.  Alpinism is a lifelong study that never ends.  There is always something to improve upon.  Learn to trust your gut and remember that most of climbing is mental and it’s not any easy game.  Remember that everyone at one point or another has had some time where their head wasn’t in the game.  When you’re out there, be safe, check on each other, climb within your headspace, have fun and make smart calls so you can rope up and climb another day.  See you out there!

 

About the Author: William Bevans is a New England based alpinist with over 20 years of experience in the mountains.  His studies are concentrated in the area of technical alpine climbing and high altitude mountaineering.  He has completed climbs and led expeditions in the Cascades, Rockies, Alps, Himalayas, Andes and big walls in Yosemite, Zion and Mexico.  Currently he is involved in mentoring next generation alpinists and climbing the New England classics.  

 

Other articles by the Author: Layering 101

Rites of Passage

“So far this is type three fun,” Matt comments.

The first two pitches have been miserable. The ice is fine, or at least good enough, but the wind and low temperatures are BRUTAL. Up to this point, I’m kicking myself for getting out of bed and passing up on sleeping in with my girlfriend, wasting the day. My bed is warm, I am not. My glasses are completely frozen over and stuffed uselessly in my chest pocket. My eyebrows are adorned with ice sculptures. I can barely open them. I’ve already had at least one bout of mid-pitch screaming barfies.

“There’s a warm, beautiful woman in my bed… why are we here?” I laughingly reply.

But the next pitch beckons. Half of it is even in the sun, at least if the clouds hold off. Sure, I’ve been thinking of retreating all morning, but the reality is, in my mind, there’s only one way off this thing, and that is UP!

I’ve got this…

I take off from the 2nd belay into the crux pitch of Fafnir, aiming for the thin pillar directly above us.

Rites of Passage

Article by Patrick Cooke
 

I’m psyched to be moving again. I can feel my hands finally. The pillar is straight forward. Place one tool, move feet up, repeat… but it narrows down higher up, petering out where it seeps out of a corner above. There’s barely enough to swing into – definitely not enough for two tools. I can place one foot on the pillar, the other stemmed off of the bubbly veneer of ice on the left wall. I consciously think at the time “it’s cool how you can use so little…”

Ice gives way to powder snow and tools tenuously hooked on god knows what… I’m committing to big moves on unknown hooks. The blocks to my left afford some cracks but look detached and questionable at best. I use them.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…

2 solid cams and I can breathe easy again.

*****

Every winter, we’re itching to get out and swing the tools. We go to the usual places, usually up high, to find those first dribbles of ice. But the truth of the matter is, early season climbing is serious. The gear is questionable, the conditions are questionable, and our readiness is questionable.

Despite all the reasons not to, we venture into the unknown looking for a fix. We’re anxious, itching to swing the tools again. We don’t want the security of the known… we want the outcome to be in doubt.

*****

The Saturday after Black Friday, 310 am: the alarm is going off. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccckkkkkkkkkk”

I’m heading towards the Rockpile, hoping to beat anyone ambitious enough to camp out by the Harvard Cabin. I don’t want to be behind anyone. Overnight temperatures were around 0, and I don’t have a partner… I need to be able to pick the best line and not worry about falling ice or waiting around.

There’s a party in Pinkham already at 445, but they clearly aren’t ready to go yet. Another party comes in while I’m getting my boots on, but I doubt they’ll be keeping up with me, though I don’t want to push the pace too hard on the approach. No one else has signed in yet.  At 5am I’m on my way out the door.

Sunrise on the approach

First hints of daylight on the approach.

I break trail all the way into Huntington Ravine. The going is treacherous… several inches of powder coats everything. I can’t tell if I’m going to step on flat ground, a rock, a hole, a stream… I manage to find all of these.

Pinnacle looks pretty good. Not fat, but doable. 2/3 of the way up I can’t tell if the wind is blowing snow upwards or if there’s water shooting out of a hole. Pinnacle was my goal, but this is day one. I’m coming off of a separated shoulder. I’m alone. I don’t know if I’d be able to downclimb if I can’t get past the potential geyser. I start the miserable slogging traverse/descent over towards O’Dell’s which at least has more ice, and the potential for sunshine.

 I’m up, I’m moving… swinging the tools… kicking the feet. The right side is steeper, and the left is probably the safer bet. But the right side is in the sun, and I’m fucking cold. I head up.

Swing. Kick. Kick. Repeat. It’s the first day out this season for me, but it feels natural. I’ve climbed enough over the years that it doesn’t take long to feel like I never stopped last winter. Conditions are pretty good, but i release two big water dams on the way up – a sobering reminder that I’m alone, unroped, and a long way from safety.

Worth the effort

Just Reward. No photos from below… too cold!

*****

Moving right, away from my cams, I’m feeling better. The climbing isn’t hard, it’s just awkward. Another icy step marks the transition into the blocky upper section of the pitch. If the ice came all the way down, it would be straight forward. If the ice above the block was thicker, it would be easy. It doesn’t come all the way down. There’s not enough to swing away at. I place a piece below the step but I’m doubtful about how useful it will be. I’m in don’t fall terrain.

The climbing is a puzzle. Where can I hook my tools? What blocks are solid enough for me to yard on? What can I step on? How can I move my feet up, since I can’t just kick away at the smear of ice at waist height.

A couple of false starts, up and down, and I make my way onto the next blocky ledge. I’m committed now. I’m not down-climbing that move.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…

*****

Sunday after O’Dell’s… the alarm goes off at 545 and it feels like sleeping in. A text from Dave says he’s running late… an extra 30 minutes of sleeping… After 2 hours of sleep before my 310 wake up the day before, I feel like things are looking up!

We’re across 93 from Cannon, pulled over on the side of the road. The DOT snowplows are pissed at us. We’re scoping the Dike and Fafnir with binoculars, waffling on whether we want to head up. We see a party coming down from the base. We try to convince ourselves it will be worth it, but the ice in the Dike should be yellow, not the white of fresh snow.

“I’m more of an ideal conditions fan for Fafnir… you know, temperatures below freezing” Dave quips. We head to Crawford.

Standard Route is not in. But we climb it anyways. It’s in fat… fat water conditions. It’s almost like climbing ice, only without the pro. But it’s fun, and it beats sitting at home or slogging back up to Huntington or Tux.

*****

More gear and I’m breathing again. Climb up, move right, move past that damn jutting block and I’m on the ledge. Sounds easy. Looks easy…

Man these hooks suck. Did I just imagine they were really good when I followed this last year, or was there just more ice to play with?

Motherfucker! the block that seems like a great hook is totally detached and moves… my heart is somewhere in my throat. I commit to an awkward mantle onto a questionably secure block.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…

*****

We follow Standard with a romp up Shoestring, my go-to early season route.

At the harnessing-up point, it’s clear this isn’t going to be much of an ice climb. We climb sketchy steps of slush, mixed climbing on Webster’s finest-quality rock. A bowling ball size block falls out of the wall above Dave as he’s topping out one of the sketchier steps in the gully. It stops about 6 inches short of his head. We opt out of the right hand exits. They’ve clearly been done that day, but why play with fire at this point? We head straight up into the trees.

*****

The block held, and I’ve found some good gear. Now, work up under the roof, move right. Make it past the before-mentioned jutting block and I’m home free.

I get a tool hooked to the left of the block, but my right foot is where my left needs to be. I hook a tool right of the block. It’s hooked, but on what? I move it a bit and torque it between another block. It’s secure, but I’ll never be able to get it out. FUCK!

I manage to bash it out of it’s wedged position and hook it back on the tenuous placement it was in before. I let go of the left and grab the block to pull off of it with my hand. It feels secure, but as I move up I momentarily panic, letting out an audible whimper, and move back down to the security of my tools.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…

This is it. If I make the moves, I’m at the top…

I remove the better, left, tool, and hook it with the right. Swap hands, mantle with the right hand on what seems to be a somewhat flexing pile of blocks… I commit and make the move onto the ledge above.

Don't let the blue sky fool you... it was @#$%ing cold.  Also, it may look like a WI2 gully from this view, but it doesn't feel like one when you're on it!

Don’t let the blue sky fool you… it was @#$%ing cold.
Also, it may look like a WI2 gully from this view, but it doesn’t feel like one when you’re on it!

*****

“Man, that was sketchy on second!”

I’m a bit relieved to know that I was justified in thinking it was hard. It wasn’t physically difficult, but it was mentally taxing for sure.

Cannon has become my go-to crag for the early season. Often, when there isn’t much else in, there’s great climbing to be had. It’s the perfect early-season experience: Conditions wont be ideal, but there’ll be just enough there to make it work. There’s no room for wandering thoughts, it channels that total focus that only happens for me when the outcome is in doubt.

A week later, I’ve still got some frostnip in my fingertips, but I’m glad I dragged myself out of bed. Those “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…” experiences are just a rite of passage each December.

The Heretic

 

Heresy: An unorthodox practice, publicly avowed, and obstinately defended.

Heretic: One who carries out the above; traditionally burned alive as penalty for sins.

 

THE HERETIC

article by Patrick Cooke
 

*****

There’s a particular dogma within our community that drives us and binds us together: get out every chance you can. Our season is short, and we need to make the most of it. Last year I climbed 55 days. I could have gotten out more, but I feel pretty good about the fact that I managed to get out so much in a season that didn’t begin for me until the week before Christmas, a full month after Doug, Court, Alan, and the rest of the gang had broken out the tools for first swings.

I needed to get out those 55 days. For me, every day out was a session in vertical therapy. Throwing myself at the ice, day in and day out, let me work through everything else that I couldn’t control in my life. I was the poster-child of the addicted ice climber – I couldn’t climb enough.

*****

But how many of those days were truly good days? How many were days where I walked away as the sun set, thinking “damn, that was a great day of climbing!”?  The truth is, although I climbed a ton last winter, it wasn’t really my best season of ice climbing. For every great day I had where I’d climb something noteworthy for me, there’d be another day of cruising up moderates because that’s all my mind could handle. Sure, moderate ice is fun, but climbing it because you feel like you should instead of because you want to isn’t necessarily inspiring. In fact, on many of those days, I probably would have been better off skiing, running, reading, sleeping in, or hanging out with friends.

I won’t be climbing 55 days this winter. Having a full-time job made that a foregone conclusion before the season even began. But 40 days would be possible. 30 would be easy. I doubt I’ll get 25 days out this winter. And I’m fine with that.

An Unorthodox Practice:

Two weekends ago, I passed up the opportunity to go ice climbing. Not moderate gully cruising or anything of that like… a day at the Lake taking advantage of hero ice on steep lines I either haven’t done before or would usually jump at the chance of doing again. I stayed home, took a yoga class, climbed some with friends at the local gym, saw my extended family.

I’ve gotten picky in when I’m willing to go out… I’m bailing if it’s too cold, too rainy, or the offerings not inspiring enough. Instead I’m climbing in a gym, reading, writing, doing yoga, running, pursuing relationships, hanging out with friends, and everything else I’ve swept aside in my dogmatic pursuit of ice week in and week out.

Publicly Avowed:

I don’t know how many days I’ve climbed so far this winter. I started counting at the beginning of the winter, but don’t really care to bother at this point. Maybe it’s 12 or 13 days… it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is how I’m climbing. Despite going two weeks between swings of the tools at times, I’m climbing better than I ever have.

This season I haven’t been getting out much, but every day has been a quality day. There haven’t been any of the “why am I here?” moments that seemed to happen so frequently when I was forcing getting on the ice. I’ve led pitches this winter I’d have been too chicken-shit to lead last winter, all with a cool, calm head and none of the overwhelming feelings of panic that lead to this.

I’m more relaxed, calmer, and climbing better. Replacing a single-minded obsession with a more balanced approach to life is reaping dividends for me. In three days of climbing in the Daks last weekend, I led more hard pitches and with greater ease than I did in 10 days in the Canadian Rockies last winter. Climbing the first pitch of PowerPlay Sunday as a pretty much dry, seriously runout line that required every trick I knew might have been the best lead I’ve ever done.

I have no regrets over bailing on that day at the Lake.

Obstinately Defended:

I’m not sure most people on this site agree with my stance. But I’m standing by it. I’ll climb less if that means I climb better.

The Heretic beginning his easiest lead of the Mountainfest Weekend

The Heretic beginning his easiest lead of the Mountainfest Weekend

 

There’s a heretic among us… Light your torches!

 

Astro Turf

Astro Turf (IV M9, WI 4+ R)

Lake Willoughby Vermont

FA: Matt McCormick and Josh Hurst

Josh Hurst at the roof of “Astro Turf” – Photo by Matt McCormic – +click to enlarge

On Saturday Jan 7, 2005, Josh Hurst and I climbed a new route in the central section of Mt. Pisgah. “Astro Turf” start as for Aurora about 150’ right of Super-Nova in the right facing ice/turf gully on the left side of the Star man buttress. The first 2 pitches follow Aurora.

1. Climb the 40’ right facing ice/turf gully to the big snow ledge and belay below the left facing turf and rock corner capped by a chockstone.

2. M5 – Dry tool into and up the left facing groove past one fixed pin and tunnel under the chockstone capping the groove. Belay immediately after the chockstone at the fixed nut/pin anchor.

3. M6/WI 4+R – Standing on the chockstone, dry tool left until established on the ice. There is a fixed angle and nut that can be found at the stance at the end of the traverse. The pin is reachable after stepping up immediately after the traverse. This pin may be covered in ice depending on the conditions but can be dug out against the main black wall. Once across the traverse, climb 80-90 degree thin ice for a 30-40 ft run out on to thicker ice. Climb thicker ice to the top of the ice smear and belay

4. M9 – Dry tool up into the shallow groove past 2 bolts and small cam placements. At the end of the groove, reach up and clip the bolt in the 6’ roof then pull strenuously out the roof past 2 more bolts and up the 90 degree thin ice to the ledge above.

5-6. WI 5 – Climb the center of three flows to the top as for (Starman?).

Standard rack needed plus ice screws.

Topo map of the climb

– Matt McCormick

Quand l'Diable s'en Mêle

59D_Quand_l_Diable_s_en_m_le_MP

Marc Paquet dancing his way up on the St-Laurence north shore near La Malbaie, Quebec. Photo by “pathbeaudet”

December 7, 2010

Winter! Here it comes…

Mike Garity on an icy Pinnacle Gully, Huntington Ravine, Mt. Washington NH - Alan Cattabriga

Mike Garity topping out on Pinnacle Gully, Huntington Ravine, Mt. Washington NH 12-05-10 - Alan Cattabriga

After the last thaw, most of the good climbing has been up high. That is about to change. After torrential rains last week the cold is back with  a vengeance. A temperature of -4 is forecast for Lake Willoughby VT Thursday night. Look for perfect ice making conditions over the next week.

StandardLine

Erik Weihenmayer Climbs Moose's Tooth

Jay Abbey and Erik Weihenmayer heading up Ham & Eggs Couloir on the Moose's Tooth in Alaska. Photo by Ian Osteyee.

Erik Weihenmayer, left, and Jay Abbey, right, heading up Ham & Eggs Couloir on the Moose's Tooth in Alaska. Photo by Ian Osteyee.

 

On The Moose’s Tooth

By Ian Osteyee, Adirondack Mountain Guides.

At the time Erik Weihenmayer had floated the idea of going to Alaska’s Ruth Glacier to climb the routes “Ham and Eggs” and “Shaken not Stirred” on the Moose’s Tooth, we had just barely finished climbing “.5 Gully” on Ben Nevis in Scotland. We still had a few climbing days left and already he was thinking about the next trip. That’s Erik though; he is really motivated to climb, more than many climbers I know.

So a few days later Erik and I, joined by Jay Abbey, flew up to Anchorage. Weather reports didn‘t look good but we already had the time set aside and the tickets had been purchased…..

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NEIce Season Round-up

NEIce 2009-2010 Round-up

tablets

Most of the Tablets at Lake Willoughby lying at the base a week ago. Photo by RAH.

NEIce opened the season with a new website as it reached the 10-year anniversary milestone, a fact which stands as a tribute to the region’s wonderful ice climbing community.  Temperatures this weekend hit an unusual mark for April reaching above 80 degrees Fahrenheit in New England. While there are still pockets of solid ice to be found on Mt. Washington, we take a look back at the highs and lows of the past season.

This past winter got off the an early start in mid-October but was slow to kick off as most routes didn’t form until early December.

Photo of the Week 3/10/2010

Medusa

Climbing the wild ice on 'Medusa', Wi4, on the Gaspe' Peninsula, Canada. (Photo by MtnRkr) Climbing the wild ice on ‘Medusa’, Wi4, on the Gaspe’ Peninsula, Canada. (Photo by MtnRkr)

Lots of NEIce members were out there getting after it this past week.  Travelling to the Gaspe’, Canadian Rockies, and also nearer to home on Mt. Webster in N.H.

Alfonzo gives a great Trip Report of a posse of NEicer’s sending on Mt. Webster: Mt. Webster’s new Kick My Pick Hole route

Chance meeting in the Canadian Rockies: RaginTurk and Spectre run into Ridgerunner and LarryB

Photo of the Week 2/25/10

Matt McCormick on the first ascent of "Hydropower", M9-, Wi5 in the Black Chasm, Catskills, NY.

Matt McCormick on the first ascent of "Hydropower", M9, Wi5- in the Black Chasm, Catskills, NY. Photo by Ryan Stefiuk

StandardLineNews & Information

Hydropower M9 WI5-

Erik Weihenmayer Climbs Ben Nevis

Home Made Tools

Hydrophobia at “The Lake”

Mahoosic Notch, Maine – eguide