The Ledge

by Jim Davidson

  If I can’t get the rope off Mike’s carabiner, I’ll just remove that biner from his harness. After unthreading Mike’s waist belt, I easily free the locking biner from that half of his purple harness. Then I rebuckle the waist belt so that Mike remains clipped to the anchor.

  But the jammed carabiner is only partway off Mike—it’s still clipped through his harness’s leg loops. There’s no way to unthread his permanently sewn leg loops, though, so the biner and rope are still stuck to Mike’s harness. This is a serious problem. I resume struggling to open the biner, on my knees, hunched over Mike, with my shoulders barely able to fit crossways in the narrow crevasse. Every time I lift my arms to put some muscle into my efforts, I bump against the ice. I curse the tight space and jab an angry elbow at the wall behind me.

  Since I can’t detach the carabiner from his leg loops, I realize that I’ll have to cut the loops off the biner. The thought startles me—slashing through his harness seems almost evil, as if it somehow desecrates our partnership or says that I am willing to put him at risk to save myself. Good Lord, what if I don’t live through this and someone finds us both dead, with part of Mike’s harness cut through? Will they think I did something murderous down here? I’d rather give up and die here, stopped short by one stuck carabiner, than risk anyone thinking that. I soothe myself with the thought that I’m not really putting Mike at greater risk; he’s still anchored in by his waist belt.

  I double-check Mike, running my hands and eyes along his sling. He’s secure. Reassured, I dig my jackknife from my parka pocket and flip open the small blade. I puff out a breath to steady myself, then pull the blade across the central tie-in point of Mike’s purple leg loops. A second swipe with the knife finishes the job, and the rugged webbing flops open.

  I pull the biner straight out the opening I just cut through the central attachment loop. With the carabiner off his harness, at least the entire rope is free from Mike. Now I need to get the biner off the rope. I stand to give myself more room to fight it. Though I apply more strength, it’s still stuck. Agitated at this continuing roadblock, I lash out angrily: “Man, I want to talk with the idiot who designed this stupid thing.”

  Rather than struggling further to open the jammed biner, I realize I can instead just untie the knot from around it. But the fall cinched the knot so tight that it’s almost as dense as a baseball. Using fingers and teeth, I push, prod, and pull the tightly bound clump of rope. Frustrated, I fight it, but it won’t budge. Figuring there might be ice freezing it shut, I stuff the knot partway into my mouth and exhale forcefully onto it for a few minutes. Dirt and aluminum dust from our gear leave the rope tasting like a dry soda can. I gently chomp my teeth on the knot and feel it soften. Taking it from my mouth, I work at all four strands forming the knot, making slow progress. I pull two strands in opposite directions, as if I’m prying open elevator doors, and the stubborn knot yields at last.

  Finally, I pull the fifty-five-foot end of the rope all the way through the loose knot, freeing it from the broken carabiner. I glance at the stuck biner—it’s useless now, and I think about tossing it away. But instinct urges me not to. I took it off Mike, so it’s important now. I open the right chest pocket of my parka and drop Mike’s biner inside.

  Still a little shaken at how close I came to mistakenly cutting the rope, I’m thrilled to have the whole 165 feet back, undamaged. Reclaiming our rope while still keeping both of us anchored gives me some confidence that I’m working all of this through. Now that I have the rope free, I tie one end to my leg loops and waist harness. At the other end, I weave a figure-eight-on-a-bight knot and clip it to our anchor screw with a locking biner. I wrap my Prusik loop around the climbing rope just a few feet up from the bottom anchor and clip the loop back to my harness with another locking biner. The rigging is almost ready, but I still need to test my first ever self-belay system before my life depends on it.

  I reach up and clip my climbing rope through the upper anchor screw, as if I had just led a short section of wall. Sinking my body down, I slowly settle my weight onto the Prusik-held rope. The friction knot clenches tight, and my 170 pounds stretch the skinny Prusik cord and climbing rope taut. I flick the tensioned lines, and watch with satisfaction as they vibrate and stop. When I lift my feet off our snow ledge, my suspended body slumps against one ice wall.

  My system holds.

  NOW MORE THAN an hour has passed since Mike and I crashed through the snow bridge. It is almost time to climb. Trying to envision myself making it up there, I keep glancing high above me in the crevasse. The upper chamber glows iridescent blue, as if some alien light emanates from the ice itself.

  I’ve decided to leave only one ice screw as the bottom anchor and take the other. Remembering that the upper screw felt weaker when I placed it, I strip off the biner. Sticking the ice hammer’s pick into the screw’s eye, I twist it back out of the wall. The threads squeak in protest against the dry, hard ice. Once the screw is out, I blow the ice core from the middle of the hollow tube. Now I have five ice screws with which to climb—not nearly enough, but better than four.

  Since we’ve been down here, chunks of snow and ice have crashed around us, and I know I need a helmet. But mine’s deeper in the crevasse, broken. I briefly consider going back down again to get it, but I shudder at the work, and the time, and the fear it will involve. What if something goes wrong this time and I don’t make it back to the ledge safely?

  I could wear Mike’s helmet, but taking it from him feels sacrilegious—that’s his, not mine.

  However, Mike and I had always agreed that on the mountain, there was no “yours” or “mine,” only “ours.” We always pooled our resources—food, water, clothing, carabiners. It didn’t matter if one of us dropped something, or the other guy broke something. We’re in it together. We just split the cost after we got home; paying with beers and burgers was the preferred settlement method.

  Still, taking Mike’s helmet feels like stripping him naked. I think briefly about hoisting him up as I climb but quickly toss the idea aside, torn between knowing that I can’t take him with me and wishing that I didn’t have to leave him behind.

  My mind roils. The only thing I can do for Mike now is climb out and tell his family what happened to him, and get him off the mountain. I have to make it out, and wearing Mike’s helmet will improve my chances.

  With that thought, my resolve gets stoked a bit higher. Before I lose the courage to act, I reach down, fiddle with the strap on Mike’s blue helmet, and pull it off him. I grit my teeth, grab the chin strap, and cinch the helmet down hard onto my head.

  Reaching down again, I gently set Mike’s sunglasses back over his eyes. I snug his gloves fully back onto his hands. I look over his waist harness and anchor sling—they’re good. Again I inspect that lone ice screw in the wall that will keep Mike from plunging in any deeper and will also be my bottom anchor. I like it that we are both tied into the same screw.

  It will work for both of us, or it will work for neither of us. We’re still in this together.

  I PLAY WITH the gear, stalling—the way I sometimes do when I face something scary. In these situations, Mike always urged me on, infusing me with an empowering energy in moments of uncertainty. We’ll be on the rock, and it’ll be my turn to lead, and I’ll hesitate, afraid it’s too much for me, fiddling with the gear, buying time. Mike will sense this and move to cut it off.

  “You can do this pitch, Jim,” Mike will say. “Get up there.”

  “You wanna take it?” I’ll ask, hoping the answer will be yes.

  “No, no—you take it,” he’ll insist.

  When Mike says I can do it, that means I can.

  Before I leave, I decide to tidy up the ledge a bit. That way there will be less gear to snag the rope. Besides, if I don’t make it and someone finds us, I want them to know that we kept it together as best we could, for as long as we could. While stuffing some loose gear back into my pack, I see Gloria’s black Ricoh camera dangling h
alfway out, ready to take a ride into the depths, but I don’t care. It’s as if I’m spiting the camera, as though it has something to do with my predicament. It’s stupid, but I realize this is an important step for me because it shows how little I care about physical stuff. I am ready to leave it all behind.

  Pulling myself together, I push the camera back into my pack, then wonder if I should take a picture of myself in the crevasse so that if I die someone might find it and know that I survived the fall, that I tried to save Mike. I also have a notepad—maybe I should write something to go with the picture. It’s suddenly important to me that I make sure that someone—anyone—will learn my fate if I don’t make it out alive.

  Immediately, I realize that self-doubt is the wrong way to go. I need to believe that people are going to know what happened to us because I am going to get out and tell them. How well we climbed; how incredible the summit was; how the glacier opened beneath my feet and swallowed us; how hard I tried to do something for Mike.

  How he died.

  Explanatory notes and photos in case I fail might enable a lack of commitment in me. This realization steels me. No pictures. No note. If I die on the rope, hanging off the frozen crevasse wall, maybe whoever finds us will figure out what happened. Regardless, I’ll keep climbing until I make it out and get us both found or I die trying. It’s that simple.

  For the first time, the concept of climbing out of here begins to feel right, natural. I think again about what I should take with me. Gingerly, I reach through the gash in my pack, considering what I might need: the food bag, the stove, my sleeping bag, and more. But I am foolishly selecting gear as though I’m setting out on a cushy overnight hike—not trying to scale a frighteningly steep, nearly impossible ice face.

  I realize that I can’t take all this crap with me. I’ll be lucky if I can climb this wall at all, let alone lug along equipment. If I don’t get out of here today, I’m not going to need this gear anyway.

  I decide to secure the gear in case something goes wrong; at least then I’ll have something to come back to. I can’t stand the thought of hanging from the rope, unable to get out, with nowhere to go. So I’ll leave most of the gear clipped to the anchor and take the bare minimum with me.

  I grab a pair of thick mitts and stuff them inside my jacket, along with a red balaclava I can wear to keep my head and neck warm. This makes my jacket bulky, though. I can’t climb like that, so I seize my blue sleeping bag sack and decide to haul it along behind me with a few things in it. Into the empty sack go the extra mitts and the balaclava. A quart of water. A pair of dirty but dry socks.

  I realize that if I make it to the surface I’m going to need snow protection to anchor myself when I get there. I grab an aluminum snow fluke and drop it in. The stuff sack weighs three or four pounds, and I clip it to the back of my harness with a biner. I’m getting closer to the moment when I will leave the ledge.

  With a pat to the chest pocket, I confirm that my red-handled knife is inside my jacket. I think about carrying the knife with the blade open in case I need to cut the rope, so it’ll be ready a half second quicker, but I immediately discard that dangerous idea. I press my sternum and am comforted when I feel my medal dig into me.

  I’m almost ready, but at the thought of actually leaving, I nearly crumble. I’m a fraud. Assembling all this gear, I’ve only been acting like I am going to climb out. Part of me will not yield, though, and struggles to beat back my fear. In my mind and heart, I realize I’ll get out only if I believe it, only if I am confident that I can make it to the top. To keep busy while I recover my plummeting confidence, I slowly pick through a small ditty bag of miscellaneous items in my pack.

  There, I see my sunglasses. If I pull myself onto the surface of the glacier today, the sun will blaze blindingly on the white mountainside. To prove to myself that I intend to make it out before the sun goes down, I grab the sunglasses and drop them into my left chest pocket.

  Yes! Now you’re acting like you’re getting out of here today.

  I resume mining the ditty bag, searching. I see the National Car Rental key chain, with the keys to the car. It’s crazy, but I tell myself that once I get out of this slot, I’m going to drive back to Seattle, get on a plane, and go home. I stuff the car keys in with the sunglasses, then zip the pocket shut. My right hand pats the lumpy pocket twice, and the stiff plastic gently pokes my chest.

  After I get out, I’m going home.

  And then it hits me: If I want to see Gloria again, I better keep acting like I’m going to get out.

  IT’S TIME TO go.

  I look down at Mike, and I have the strong urge to say something before I leave—something important, something meaningful. I am almost overcome. I kneel next to Mike’s body, look sadly toward his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and begin talking to him in my head. No words leave my mouth—the only sound is in my mind.

  I don’t want to go, Mike … I’m not supposed to go … I’m supposed to stay with you … We’re partners, and we stick together … But you’re gone now, and I’m the only one left … If I’m going to keep living, I’ve got to get out of here … That means I have to leave you … I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave you, but I’ve got to … If I’m going to get us found, I’ve got to get myself out of here, but that means I’ve got to go and I can’t take you with me … So you’re going to have to stay here for now …

  My hands shake, and I press my eyes closed, fighting to pinch off the tears. Tentatively, I touch the sleeve of Mike’s jacket. Unconsciously, I blow out rapid breaths, one after another, as I subdue the urge to cry.

  I know leaving is the right thing to do, but it feels so wrong. I stand, my head still bent forward. I’m looking down at the jumble of rope lying on the snow. Suddenly, I fear that the rope will tangle around the gear or even Mike after I leave the ledge, stranding me halfway up the wall, unable to ascend or descend, possibly yanking hard on Mike—bad for him, dangerous for me. I don’t want to hurt him. I know that I’m facing a messy climb, that chunks of snow and ice will rain down as I scale the crevasse wall.

  I realize that if I cover Mike with his sleeping pad, it will shield him from falling debris and will also provide a safe place for the remaining rope while I climb. I pull out his rust-colored Therm-a-Rest pad, unroll it, and cover him from his head down to his shins. His boots stick out from the far end.

  Carefully, I begin stacking all the slack rope on the stretched-out pad. When I drop the first few coils on the foam surface, they drum out muffled thumps. The sounds fade as the rope pile builds on the mattress. These neatly flaked coils mean the rope should feed out smoothly as I climb. Knowing that the pad will protect us both soothes me anew.

  It’s so strange down here. One moment, I’m a meticulous climber, rationally clicking off the list of things I must do to give myself a chance. The next, I’m a grief-stricken friend too overcome to do anything but stare at the rope-covered pad, transfixed.

  Rationally, I know I need to rally myself for the climb. But in this moment, I’m not rational, and in my head a battle erupts between confidence and doubt, the same one that has raged since the moment I landed on this ledge and a frozen slurry of ice and snow buried me alive. The negative thoughts send my courage draining from me as if it’s liquid and I’m a fractured vessel. A cold wave sweeps from my head down toward my feet. It is as if heat and courage are leaking out of me and into the crevasse vacuum below. A few moments ago, positive emotion had grown inside me like heat rising from my gut. This is the exact opposite.

  I stare at my feet, wondering for the hundredth time whether I have the courage to even try. It takes every fiber of my spirit to fight the urge to cower and hide—I have to be strong, I have to take action.

  Then, in my mind’s eye, I clearly see Mike’s face several feet in front of me, off to the right. He scowls at me, a hint of irritation on his face.

  “Come on—climb!” he shouts. “You have to try!”

  He’s not yelling becau
se he’s mad at me. I realize that he’s yelling to psych me up. He’s yelling because he wants me to get out of this frozen chasm.

  “Go! Go now, before it’s too late. Don’t wait any longer! Get out of here while you still can! Climb!”

  I know that Mike is physically gone, but his face is so clear and his words so stern that I know he is here and he is serious. Mike is perturbed that I might not even try, and so he is trying to push me into action. Looking up at the wall, I consider my first moves. His face softens into a grin. My partner senses my resolve returning.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he says more softly. “You can do it.”

  Adrenaline rushes through me.

  I FACE THE left wall, a sense of upward momentum pulsing through me. It feels as if there’s a hand on my back, pushing me, while at the same moment I summon my own willpower. I try latching onto the energy building around and in me, raising my right arm high, pumping it slightly up and down in rhythm with the three slow breaths I suck in. I yell out and swing the hammer in my right hand hard. The pick smashes into the frozen wall with a spray of ice. In concert with this progress, a voice inside my mind shouts: That’s it!

  I plant the ax in my left hand just as firmly two feet above my left ear. One foot lifts off the ledge as I kick the front points of a crampon into the wall. Squeezing my biceps tight, I heft my chest up and shift my weight to the tool and crampon placements. Holding my body tension snug to stabilize myself, I smash my other foot forward like a soccer player and drive the front points of my second boot into the ice wall.

  I have begun leaving the ledge. I hear Mike whisper in my ear:

  “You’re doing it, man. You’re climbing.”