Oh to Suffer Yet Again the Light of Day

 

 

The crunch of freshly groomed frozen powder beneath my heavily clad feet was mesmerizing.  I fell into some kind of hypnotic rhythm as I dragged my snowshoes across the tamarack track; clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth to stave off the biting wind and dark cold of the surrounding environment.  The outline of my patient climbing partner could be seen in the distance as he waited for me every fifty yards to make sure I was still alive(?).  He was in much better shape than I was and as my head torch began to illuminate his presence the clinking of climbing gear began its chorus of clinks and clanks as he began his wide stride yet again and lumbered off into the darkness of the early morning. 

Hours shrank and grew as we broached the end of the groomed track and dipped into the forest.  The crunch disappeared and was replaced by the sound of soft, fresh light powder compacting under our weight.  We were now headed up.  Cresting hills and summiting small ridges my head lamp became unnecessary as the light of the sun, ethereal, blue, and unfolding crept across the landscape and seeped through the trees. 

 

 

Ahead, lurking, looming larger than life was our destination.  One last white hill was put in the past as we stopped for water and a bite to eat.  The valley below us stretched out like fresh bed linens dotted with hints of vegetation and rock.  I stared upwards, slowly craning my neck in order to take it all in.  Blue Crag, a jagged stalky lump protruding from the skyline sat there in front of us in almost a taunting manner.  Alluring, beckoning, inviting.  I was sweating now, but after a short five minutes I was zipping my thermals up and pulling my shell closer to my body.  I hunched over and slung my pack back on.  Preston had already lost himself in the beauty ahead.  It was refreshing to be around someone who shared the same outlook on adventure, isolation, and the intricate chaos that makes up the majestic nature of the backcountry as me.  We had said but a few words to each other in the last three hours but now that we were face to face with the day’s objective we found it impossible to restrain our enthusiasm any longer.  “Wow.”  Preston let his feelings out in a single word and then the dam burst and a flood of beta and ‘look at that line!’ chitter-chatter followed. 

 

 

 

 

My pack suddenly felt non-existent and a surge of energy overtook my body forcing me not to focus on the tedious trudge through the knee deep powder snow but instead on this magnificent looking piece of rock that we were about to attempt to climb. 

We made it to the base of the first pitch; the sun was out in full force and violent wind gusts were blasting away at the east ridge of the mountain.  I fumbled with my crampons, it was no secret this was the first time I had ever attempted to put a pair on.  A quick lesson from Preston on proper crampon/ice tool use and etiquette and we were roped up and ready to blast off.  Preston launched ahead tackling he first awkward mantle and then climbing up the snow field that made up the first pitch.  I was belaying and simultaneously dodging the wickedly bitter bite of heavy spin drift as it continually gave me face shot after face shot. 

It was finally time for me to start kick stepping up this behemoth and the first pitch went surprisingly well.  Very little technical ability was required so I faired well.  The snow was a bit airy and proved to be the only obstacle; gaining a reliable foot hold or hand hold was a struggle at times but overall the first snow field climbed quite nicely.  

Preston presses into the chimney at the start of the second pitch.

 

 

We perched at the base of the second pitch, a long snow drenched rock gully that had sections of true to form chimney climbing.  The technical dry tooling skills that I had none of suddenly reared their ugly head and blew my forearms out of proportion.  Preston kept charging ahead and every now and then I could see a silly grin on his face.  Again, it was good to be around that kind of energy, I could tell he really finds his place in this universe to be right here on the side of a mountain grappling up slippery rock faces and snagging tools on bomber placements or wedging them in cracks and charging snow fields.  The energy was encapsulating and invigorating.  I suddenly gained some perspective a mere five hundred feet up as I was anchored to a clump of trees.  We had just put down the third pitch and climbed out of the rock gully/chimney.  Ahead was a beautiful powdery snowfield.  We had traversed the north face and now as I stood on a small stomped out patch of snow I looked behind me to see a twenty foot expanse of snowfield that spontaneously disappeared over a cliff.  Shit just got real.  But, at least I had a competent rope gun.  The fourth pitch proved to be my favorite, probably because it was so straightforward and enjoyable for a novice mountaineer like myself.  Stab stab, kick kick.  Stab stab, kick kick.  I rounded the belay station and stood next to Preston fiending for a steaming hot slice of pizza and a cold (or maybe at this point luke warm?) beer. 

 

Preston was getting psyched up for the next pitch.  Not really sure what to expect he traversed around the belay station and started up the last little bit of the large snowfield.  Finding little to no gear up the first sixty feet he finally approached the crux of the entire climb.  A 5.8/9 rock section that required some heinous pulls up and over a couple of rocky bulges guarded the last cruiser pitch of snow.  Luckily the gear was bomber through this section and amidst the explicative and clecnhcing of butt muscles Preston finally pulled out of the rocky section and set up what would be the last belay station of the climb. 

 

Following up the first pitch snowfield.

Preston climbs the makeshift ladder up to the base of the crux pitch.

Preston starts the crux pitch.

 

The crux pitch was nothing more than a heavy weight bout between the immovable force and me, the stubborn novice on the mountain.  I’ve done some pretty hard rock climbs, sprot climbing, bouldering, and multi pitch climbing, but none of it compared to the type of effort I had to abstract from the depths of my soul in order to mount this beast.  It felt damn good to pull into the belay station above this crux pitch and what was even better was the smile on Preston’s face as he pointed towards the yellow brick road that paved the way to the summit. 

The last pitch. 

A smooth low angled slab of snow that took no protection but corniced perfectly at the mountain’s summit.  We charged to the top.  It was a great way to end the climb.  I remembering hooking my ice tool over the lip of a juggy outcropping of rock at the very top and felt like I was snagging the victory jug of very long and tedious boulder problem. 

Me on top of the summit of the North Face of Blue Crag, first winter ascent/first ascent.

 

We celebrated on the summit for a few moments of fleeting bliss.  But we both knew that the day was only half over.  We were still faced with the descent and the trek back to the trail head a mere 6.5 miles away. 

 

The descent was welcome relief to my knees not to mention a sweet backcountry ski or snowboard run.  A fabulously narrow couloir filled to the brim with fluffy powder.  We basically fell down it to grab a cache of supplies we had left behind and then made the trudge back out of the valley and back to civilization.