The Beckoning Silence

by Simpson, Joe

  Modern ice tools now come branded with fiendishly exciting and aggressive names. Rambos, Footfangs and Terminators are, in fact, crampons. Black Prophets, Aliens and Cobras are ice axes, previously known as alpenstocks. These are names to conjure up visions of mythic battles to be won fearlessly against all the odds. They also happen to appeal to the helplessly gullible and slightly desperate ice climbers looking for an edge in their war with icy wet verticality. If you don’t feel brave waving these things around then you never will. I strap on a pair of Terminator crampons and leash my wrists to Cobra ice axes and I know I could whip Dante’s demons if I so chose – until, that is, I leave the ground. Then I just feel scared and a little silly.

  When previously the only protection came from hammering smooth iron spikes into the ice or screwing in glorified corkscrews that had as much chance of holding your fall as a wet cigarette, today we have super-sharp ice screws that cut into hard ice with ease. Unlike their predecessors they can hold quite substantial falls, if the ice is good, and they no longer require enough energy expenditure to light up a small city when you place them.

  One would have thought that these welcome developments would have made the sport considerably safer. Unfortunately climbers now throw themselves onto ice climbs that would have been unheard-of only a decade ago.

  My first car, a rustbucket of a Mini, could, if pushed, go alarmingly fast and seemed to stick to corners like glue. It also had appalling brakes, the steering wheel vibrated like a washing machine on full spin cycle, and the size of the vehicle left you with no illusions as to what a small cube of twisted metal it could instantly become if you hit anything. Consequently I drove with a modicum of caution.

  A recent report from the Automobile Association revealed that an alarming number of fatalities were being caused by the fact that the modern car with its near silent running, smooth suspension, anti-lock brakes, side impact bars, air bags, and deceptively powerful acceleration lulled drivers into a false sense of security. Quite frequently it lulled the drivers into a sleep from which they never awoke.

  These safety measures introduced to make motoring survivable have made people drive faster and more dangerously. I’ve always agreed that the most effective safety device would be a viciously sharp spike protruding from the centre of the steering wheel to a point some ten inches from the driver’s chest. No seat belts allowed.

  The same seems to have occurred in ice climbing. Advances in equipment design have combined to make climbers attempt harder and more dangerous routes. It is a vicious circle and quite an amusing one if you do not happen to be a climber.

  Yet, remarkably, fatalities are not that common in waterfall ice climbing. Of course some poor individuals do get swept away by avalanches, sometimes columns of ice collapse squashing the unfortunate parties attached to them, and some take short falls which inexplicably become very long ones abruptly interrupted by the ground – but that is only to be expected.

  Such falls have acquired an imaginative series of descriptions. A ‘peeler’, or a ‘lob’, suggests a scary but survivable short fall. A ‘zipper’, when all your gear rips out, and the aptly named ‘screamer’, are altogether more serious and if you are unfortunate enough to ‘crater’ or ‘Desmond Decker’ as a consequence, then your ice climbing adventures tend to be abruptly terminated.

  So ‘bombing off’, an uncontrolled free fall, can rapidly escalate into a ‘screamer’, particularly if zipping occurs. In the worst-case scenario it may become a ‘birdman’, a prolonged free fall with much flapping of arms and wild ice tool spinning, before the inevitable ‘crater’ and early retirement.

  A stranger first viewing waterfall ice climbing could hardly be blamed for thinking the death rate must be somewhere in the region of 90 per cent of all participants. Yet because it is such a bizarre-looking sport, because the dangers are so manifestly obvious even to someone whose testosterone level far exceeds his intelligence, only a handful of people are dumb enough to try it. And when they do, they are very, very careful.

  Climbing vertical ice cascades the size of skyscrapers requires a certain lack of imagination. It can be physically exhausting, technically extremely difficult, demanding of immense concentration and cool-headed decision-making, at the same time as being mind-numbingly frightening. It is an idiotic thing to do and therein lies the fascination. It can also be an exhilarating and absorbing experience. It is a paradox. It can be at once idiotic to the point of insanity and one of the coolest, calmest, most lucidly controlled and vivid things you will ever do. It is so stupid as to be wonderful.

  Jon Krakauer in his hilarious book Eiger Dreams: Ventures among Men and Mountains described an ascent of the crux ice pillar on Love’s Way, a 360-foot-high waterfall in Alaska:

  … no matter how carefully I swung my axes, every so often a shard of ice – some weighing twenty or thirty pounds – would break off beneath my blows, brush past my head, accelerate earthwards with a low whistle, and smash into the slope twenty stories below as I looked on, transfixed … Because the ice was overhanging, my arms were called upon to support approximately eighty percent of my bodyweight for most of the thirty or forty minutes it took to ascend the pillar. The physical effort was roughly comparable to doing pull-ups from a chinning bar for half an hour straight, pausing at the top of each pull-up to hang from one arm and swing a two-pound hammer a couple of times with the other.

  Doesn’t that just sound great? When you also consider that the ice climber is bedecked with a wicked array of razor-sharp screws, crampons and assorted spikes, falling off doesn’t bear thinking of. Axes are attached to the climber’s wrists with leashes so in the event of a fall they tend to have the disconcerting habit of spinning wildly through the air from the falling climber’s semaphoring arms. Most of the time falling is not the problem. Hitting the ground is. Hitting the ground feet first with crampons on your boots tends to splinter leg bones with alarming efficiency. I know. I’ve done it twice now. This is painful enough without then having to contend with disembowelling yourself with the very tools and screws that are supposed to save your life.

  Friedrich Nietzsche once cheerfully wrote that, ‘If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.’ He certainly had a point but it should be noted that he also once stated that, ‘The secret of reaping the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment from life is to live dangerously.’ He might have thought twice about that one if he had been handed a pair of ice tools and pushed in the general direction of Bridalveil Falls.

  Our first attempt on the Falls ended in ignominious defeat. When we arrived at the base of the route we were disappointed to find two parties on the ice. One pair was established on the left flank of the Falls and were climbing with shocking speed and ease.

  However we had been told that the easiest line followed a steep ice pillar on the right flank of the Falls rising above the cone of shingled 80-degree ice at the foot of the climb. After this long pitch the two lines merged in the centre of the Falls and the way ahead followed a column of ice to an alarmingly overhanging section of cauliflower ice. This is so named because of its peculiar formation of curled downward facing plates of ice looking like serried clumps of huge upside-down artichokes. Once past this crux section of the route a vertical fluted pillar led up into a ramp of smooth water ice to a sheltered cave bivouac. From there a short 50-foot wall led to the top of the climb. The middle pitch was the longest and hardest section of the route.

  We haggled over who would start first. Normally, keen and ambitious climbers are furious lead hogs determined to claim the hardest climbing for themselves. Owing to a highly developed sense of cowardice Ray and I tended to do quite the opposite and the argument was bitter and brief. Ray announced that the first pitch was his and promptly stomped off in the direction of the right-hand line where a party was ensconced on the first pitch. I had been lumped with the crux middle pitch which I examined with mounting horror. I wasn’t entirely convinced about my ability to climb ov
erhanging cauliflower ice.

  We watched as the lead climber struggled for a long time on this pillar and couldn’t work out why he was taking so long until it was our turn to climb, an hour and a half later. Water was pouring down from the tips of some icicles hanging hundreds of feet above the pillar. The shower of freezing meltwater hadn’t been visible when we had watched the wretched man’s struggles and now with the water flow dramatically increased as the icy early-morning frost had dissipated, we found it impossible to make any progress. Apart from getting soaking wet it was almost impossible to look up into the deluge to see where to place our axes. We abandoned the attempt and walked down to the bars of Telluride.

  As we stomped up the path to the foot of the route for the second attempt we were disappointed to notice tracks in the fresh snow that had fallen over night. Despite our early start there were people ahead of us. Although it was freezing hard we were surprised to see that water was still pouring down the right-hand line. Since there was also a pair of climbers gearing up at the foot of the line we had no choice but to try the harder left-hand pillar. I was delighted to find that Ray’s attempt to grab the easiest start had backfired so spectacularly. He looked glum at the prospect.

  ‘At least you won’t get wet this time,’ I laughed as he peered morosely at the ice rearing above him.

  ‘Hi, guys. Come to do Bridalveil, eh?’ A cheerful red-bearded man called out as he walked over to us from where he had been gearing up on the right. Ray and I looked expectantly around, wondering what on earth else he thought we might be planning on doing standing there as we were, armed to the teeth with ice climbing gear.

  ‘Yeah, seemed like a good idea,’ I replied.

  ‘Where are you boys from?’

  ‘England.’

  ‘Brits, eh. Cool.’ He spoke with what I took to be a languid Texan drawl. ‘I’ve done it a couple of times now. It’s different every time.’

  ‘You’ve done it before?’ Ray asked incredulously. He clearly thought that if you got up the route once, the best thing to do was sell your ice gear and never step foot in America again.

  ‘Oh, jeez, yeah man. It’s a cool route.’

  ‘Cool? Right.’ Ray muttered and fiddled with his harness.

  ‘It’s wild, man. Some years there are two sets of overhangs on it. Then it’s solid 6.’

  ‘Two overhangs? Oh, Jesus!’

  ‘Enjoy,’ Ray said to me in a mock American accent.

  ‘What is that odd-looking ice like?’ I was staring at the band of overhanging leaves of ice sprouting from the centre of the Falls.

  ‘The cauliflower ice. Hey, it’s weird, man!’ our companion enthused. ‘You can do some wild moves – hooking, stemming, chicken-winging …’

  ‘Chicken-winging? What the hell is that?’ I asked warily.

  ‘It’s crazy.’ The man demonstrated, holding his axe handle with his elbow bent at a right angle parallel with his body. ‘You get a good pick placement like this, right?’ I nodded. ‘Lift your elbow and hook it behind the leaves. Do it with both arms.’ He made the same movement with his other arm. ‘And, hey man, you’re chicken-winging, man! Outrageous moves, dude. You’ll dig ’em.’ He flapped his elbows and chuckled happily. I looked at him as if he was out of his mind. He wished us luck and stomped happily back to his companions.

  ‘Chicken-winging?’ I said and stared at Ray. ‘He’s barking mad.’

  ‘Yeah, and it’s all on the second pitch which you’re leading,’ Ray said cheerfully and marched off to the foot of the left-hand ice pillar.

  Ray climbed the initial cone of shingled ice and then moved left onto a steep column of ice. Halfway up this he noticed a small cave formed between the edge of the column and the rock wall. Traversing awkwardly left off the column and into the cave he fixed an ice screw into the back of the cave and then had second thoughts about trying the airy and exposed moves swinging back right onto the vertical pillar of ice. I watched as he started to bridge with his legs stemmed wide apart, one cramponed boot scratching on the rock wall and the other dug into the ice. I could see the fringe of arm-length icicles that guarded the lip of the cave. The exit directly upwards from the cave would lead him back onto the ice but it looked extremely difficult. I wanted to shout a warning but I knew it would be useless. Fifty feet to my left a geyser of water was pounding down into the plunge pool at the foot of the falls drowning out all communication between us. I hoped the ice screw was good because if the screw ripped out he would fall nearly a hundred feet.

  As the thought occurred to me I saw Ray reach up and swing his axe at the ice above the cave roof. Then he was off, falling backwards in a welter of arms and legs, as a large block of ice sheared away from his axe blow. I rushed backwards down the avalanche cone in the hope of pulling in as much slack rope as possible to lessen the length of his fall. I braced myself for the impact but nothing happened. Ray had disappeared. I saw a yellow ice axe arcing through the sky in a graceful parabola before it disappeared into the avalanche cone close to the edge of the plunge pool. A few minutes passed and I began to worry that Ray had hurt himself. Where had he gone? Was he jammed head down between the ice and the rock?

  Just as I was getting seriously worried, Ray’s head appeared level with the foot of the cave. He slowly got to his feet, shaking his head groggily from side to side. After a short pause he pulled up some rope and tied himself into the ice screw then waved for me to come up to him.

  I noticed the spray of blood on the ice as I neared the edge of the cave.

  ‘Are you OK, kid?’ I looked up and Ray’s head suddenly popped out of the cave. He had a sheepish grin on his face and a smear of blood on his chin and neck.

  ‘Got a bang in the face,’ he said. ‘Did you see the size of that ice block?’

  ‘I saw something big.’

  ‘Yeah, well it smacked me in the face. Knocked me clean off.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘I seem to be bleeding.’ He touched the side of his face and looked at the blood on his glove. ‘Oh, and I dropped my axe.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed that too,’ I said. ‘You idiot!’

  He grinned happily at me and as he did so I noticed the hole in his cheek. It was about an inch and a half long and bleeding steadily.

  ‘Well, that showed them what us Brits can do,’ he said and I watched fascinated as the hole, like a mini-mouth, mimicked the movements of his lips.

  ‘They didn’t see the fall. They’re already on the second pitch chicken-winging like crazy, no doubt.’

  ‘I don’t fancy doing any more leading,’ Ray said looking a little shaken. ‘Thought I was going for a screamer but I just landed in the cave.’

  ‘I think it might be a good idea to abseil down and go and get that stitched up.’ I nodded at his face and he touched the hole again.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt; just feels a bit numb.’ The hole opened and closed obscenely and blood bubbled out as he spoke. I leaned forward and examined the wound. Pushing his cheek gently opened it out and I saw the gleam of his teeth.

  ‘Good thing, then,’ I replied cheerfully. ‘Because it’s gone right through. Must have been the ice. It’s so clean it could have been done with a scalpel.’

  ‘Really?’ He probed experimentally with his tongue.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I said. ‘It looks horrible enough as it is without you sticking your tongue through it. Come on, let’s get down.’ I handed him the axe which I had retrieved from the avalanche cone and then began sorting out the abseil ropes.

  We trudged disconsolately back down the track to Telluride. I left Ray in the medical centre demonstrating to the receptionist the various different shapes he could achieve with his wound by puffing his cheeks out, talking and pushing at it with his tongue.

  ‘That’s gross. Stop it!’ she squealed and Ray grinned happily.

  He was led off by the young and serious-looking doctor who had been called to check on the wound.

  ‘That needs stitching,’ she s
aid sternly and led him away by the elbow.

  ‘Will it affect my modelling career?’ he asked as she pushed him into a cubicle.

  ‘I’ll see you in the bar, Ray.’ I called after him and then smiled at the receptionist. ‘He’s very, very stupid, I’m afraid,’ I said loud enough for Ray to hear. ‘It’s congenital, you see,’ I added and she smiled at me warily.

  He appeared at the bar an hour later proudly displaying the bristling line of stitches in his cheek.

  ‘It cost four hundred bloody dollars,’ he complained bitterly.

  ‘That’s American health care for you.’ I peered at the stitches. ‘Looks like they’ve done a good job. You’ll hardly see the scar in a year or so.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking,’ Ray said. ‘Maybe we should try another route. Get a bit more ice climbed before we go back to Bridalveil.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ I brightened up. ‘I was worried that you might have been put off it altogether.’

  ‘No way,’ Ray said sharply. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with that bugger now.’

  The following day we climbed the Ames Ice Hose. The last pitch was melting furiously. Of the six ice screws I placed on lead all but the last one had melted out by the time I had reached the top and Ray had only to pluck them from the ice with his fingers.

  The Ames Ice Hose proved to be one of the finest ice climbs I had ever enjoyed, varied, sustained and challenging. Indeed we climbed it in such fine style that our confidence came surging back after our setbacks on Bridalveil Falls.

  Early the following morning, nursing Ames Ice Hose celebration hangovers, we tramped wearily back up to the Falls. A light snow was dusting the air and it was freezing hard. For once there were no other parties on the climb. We could now make idiots of ourselves in peace.

  Ray climbed swiftly back to the blood-spattered cave and set up a solid belay from which I led up a steep ice pillar to a solid belay on ice screws and threaded icicles just to the left of the central overhanging band of cauliflower ice. ‘Don’t worry, I’m right behind you,’ he said with a grin as I made the first tentative swings of my ice axes. After about 15 feet I found myself braced across a groove between two vertical ice pillars with my arms tiring rapidly. Ray was out of sight hidden safely beneath the overhanging start to the pitch. My breathing became a little ragged as I struggled to place an ice screw in an awkward spot between two hollow icicles. An awkward swing to the right around the pillar led into a confused area of bulging leaves of ice. It pushed me off balance, forcing me to hang free on my arms from my axes as I tried to work out the best way forward.