All Mixed Up

I ended up sleeping in a less than legal bivvy in the parking lot of Rocky Mountain National Park the night before the climb. Karma stepped up, and I woke somewhere close to midnight to my car getting pushed around by the infamous bully known as The Park. Moments later I heard a crash and emerged from the shelter of my car to find the gusts were so strong they had ripped the lid of my roof box right off its hinges. With haste in my half dazed state, I proceeded to climb on top of the car and wrangle the box closed like some sort of automotive rodeo. Straps blowing all over, bits of snow whirling around my head, the SUV trying to buck me off like a bull. I finally got the Thule tied down and returned to the safety of my backseat for the remainder of the night, only to fall in and out of a pseudo state just barely resembling sleep.

I woke with a jolt a second time to a knock on my window. Sam was standing outside and as if some archangel had prompted him to, he offered coffee. It was needed. We discussed our plans for the day. The winds had died down enough to hike to the base of the climb and at least check out the ice flow. After all, we had survived the night just for the possibility we might be able to stick our tools in it and climb the damn thing. 

We arrive at the base of Thatchtop Mountain. An easy 3 mile hike was transformed into a slog with the residual snow from the last week’s storm. We were postholing in snowpack up to our hips and each time I’d try to dig myself out, I only fell in deeper. 

We arrived at the base and the day had just then begun. We found another party standing 50 feet to the left of the route trying to avoid chunks of ice falling down from the third party above. It was early season so there was a bit of debris. We let the other party climb first. Sam, the much more experienced one of us, was the ropegun for the day. He started up shortly after, about 20 feet to the side of their line. Since it was early November there wasn’t much ice on the route, sprinkle in a bit of climate change and we’ll call the route thin at best. The majority of the first pitch was on rock and I felt like a deer learning how to walk on my monopoint crampons. Turns out the left one was loose and I only realized once we got to the summit. 

Pitch two was ver glass, a little over a centimeter thin. To add in, the first piece of pro was about 25 feet up and left, bringing me into what I’d consider to be a no fall zone. How did he even lead that? Every tool placement had to be delicate and precise with little room for error. A kick too hard here could crumble the ice and the swing potential was substantial, made even more so by the amount of spikes coming off my arms and feet.

 I placed my tools precisely and made upward progress. The candy shell turned back into rock, but this time more vertical with a few cracks that I could wedge my tool into and pull up on. I got up to the top of the pitch and realized that the anchor Sam had built was really one of his tools slammed into some hard pack snow and the rope slung around a small bush. He assured me the anchor was “bomber” but the rock climber in me found the whole thing utterly mental. 

We walked up a low angle snow slope to a piece of rugged red tat that looked like it had been there since The Beginning and stared up wide-eyed at the glory pitch. The whole journey led us here, to this 60 foot vertical corridor of ice. Sam bolted up it. You could hear the solid thunk of his tools sinking into the flow, interrupted every now and then by a hoot or a holler. I followed up, sinking my picks into fresh divots, grinning ear to ear. I pulled over the edge to see Sam at a bolted anchor we exchanging hellos and a job well done, then made our descent.

To this day, I still get nervous in high winds, I always make sure my crampons are strapped down tight, and I do my best to camp in legal spots; if only for karma’s sake. There’s also been a subtle, continuous shift over the years. I like many of us, have been guilty of running up climbs with my head down, just trying to get to the top. As if there’s supposed to be some virtuous entity up there. Lately, I’ve realized thats not the point at all. I’ve started to appreciate the little things, the warm cups of coffee on a cold morning, the Indian food buffet and conversations at the end of the day. Even the approach… can you imagine? If there’s anything we’re getting from all this, that’s where it lies. In that split second you look up from your belay station and realize, this is where I’m supposed to be right now.