May 25, 2018, Skywalker Couloir, S Arapaho Pk, CO

Skywalker Couloir, South Arapaho Peak
May 25, 2018
57 - Fear and Composure


When my right foot broke through the back wall above the glide crack as I pushed down, it sucked all the snow around it down into the void and showed a deep, dark place beyond. I froze. In my right hand my ice axe was buried to the hilt in the near vertical wall above, along side my buried whippet fang in my left, my left foot was shin deep in the snow below the lip of the crevasse in what I hoped was firm snow. My three good points of contact held as I extracted my right foot from the hole. I didn't move for a bit as the waves of fear washed over me. I slowly sagged down onto my good left foot, keeping my weight on the well-positioned tools and reaccessed my situation.

I had come upon what I knew was an opening glide crack 3/4'ers of the way up the final headwall of the left branch of the couloir, which I hoped was benefiting from a couple of hours of sun - unlike the bottom of the couloir which had been hidden in shade even up to 10am on this brilliant spring morning.

***

I had been gripped on that lower part of the couloir all morning as I followed shallow divots made by a group of four climbers and two skiers ahead, front pointing my way up the solid frozen snow using two tools in my hands. Occasionally the divots widened to footsteps and here is where I would stop and rest. I had been trying to climb slowly, much more slowly than the two groups ahead of me, in the hopes that the late sun-hit slope would finally see warming corn. But clearly I had not climbed slow enough. Soon enough I had caught up to the group above and I could see an orange rope dangling down the pitch below them.

I realized they were roped up for the upper couloir. No shit. And here I was, alone, on a very scary 45 degree ice pitch, which was getting steeper by every foot that I climbed. 1,500 VF up and no joy in sight. What to do?

I didn't think the skiers were roped up, but that was little solace as there is something about sharing a desperate situation that lessons the impact. I kept thinking the divots would turn to a boot pack and lesson the fear factor, but instead, the slope angle continued to increase and the boot pack never materialized. For a few scant moments I even envisioned down climbing - unthinkable, really - but there I was facing a slope that wanted to be 70 degrees when it grew up. I kept looking to the "easier" left branch finish with longing. Was there an easier way?

The problem with the left hand branch was the continuous line was a traversing arc across to the left, climbing above a small cliff band. So, once above the rocks, all one could think about was the terrible ride over the rock band before somersaulting into the main couloir, which still felt hard as a stone.

But it looked like the steep crux was mellower than the direct finish, and it had been cooking nicely in the morning sun, out of the line of shadow created by the hulking buttress of the east wall of the main couloir. I attacked it with vigor, maintaining my composure as I had all morning, yet still it was nerve wracking with each triple kick and axe placement thinking about the launch into the main couloir from above the rocks. And it, like the direct finish, was pushing 60 degrees in pitch at the obvious crux section, which I now knew was the beginning of a yawning crevasse/glide crack. When I neared the glide crack, I could see the obvious wrinkle it created in the slope and above it the steepest snow of the climb. I figured there was enough snow to clear the crack and the boot packing had been pretty good thus far. Above, the slope eased and mellowed to the final obstacle, the exit cornice, which looked to be avoidable to the right. I longed to be above the crux and onto the mellower top pitch, I could see the finish cornice not a couple hundred yards away.

***

Now that I was here at the crux, I could see I was in a pickle.

The mellower slope above could have been a million miles away, but I could't get to it. To my right was the rock face of the couloir's side and I feared going there as the pitch was ultra steep and potentially rotten with shallower snow or a hidden moat, while to my left the glide crack appeared to widen and disappear around the corner out of view. I figured the only way forward was straight up.

I really hoped my left foot would hold and I pulled out my right and examined the hole I had created. Sure enough, the slope I was on was the outer edge of an opening crack, visible as a sag all the way across the slope I was on, like a new forming burgshrund on a glacier, with the upper slope diving steeply into the filled-in crevasse. I tried to kick another step higher in the wall above the hole, adjusted the ice axe a little higher too in hopes I could pull myself above this crux, but the snow was rotten and shed into the dark hole when I weighted it, giving me another heart flutter and I sagged back down onto my other foot to regroup.

I looked down to contemplate a retreat back to the main couloir - bad idea. I was squarely above the worst of the cliff band and to down climb would have used all of my 25 years of mountain experience, as well a 8 of my 9 lives.

This was not an option.

I moved my axe from one hand to the other and tried going left, but the snow was worse and the crack certainly appeared wider. A couple of tentative kicks into the snow indeed showed rotten snow above what looked like the continuation of the crevasse, bridged by uncertain snow. I did not want to fall behind the snow slope, the thoughts of the skier who fell into such a hole on Mt Rainier created by flowing water, gave me the chills. I didn't know how deep the crevasse was beyond the hole, but I certainly did not want to find out. I adjusted my axe and whippet back for another attack to the right again and gave that side another go.

This time I made a step for both feet in the wall before committing and drove the axe further higher still, in the hopes I could mantel up past the rotten area but once I pulled up onto the axe and whippet, drove my feet into the pre-made holes, both feet released and snow cascaded into the dark hole so I quickly drove my left foot back to the firm ledge I was creating with the repeating up and down motion. I let my panic subside a bit after this last attempt. The snow was obviously not going to cooperate, but I was loathe to down climb.

Then I looked down again at the slope below me and marveled at the glistening corn now a couple hours old. Realizing that I was worrying about warm wet snow and seeing the effect on the rotten snow, a welcome feeling came over me: I could easily snowboard this slope.

But the question was how to get the board on?

I examined my feet and saw that the opening hole behind the slope was worse to my right, while the shelf on the outer snow was more than a foot wide on the left. I stomped down a couple times to test the snow, all the while holding my deeply buried axe - the snow held in place - the opening behind the crevasse was not taking the snow on the left as I created a ledge. Good. Sudden hope surged through me. With both hands I carved into the slope behind me, pushing the snow into the dark hole and creating a seat of sorts in the steep back wall, drilling out a platform in the 60 degree snow. It was the most nerve-wracking platform I had ever built for a boot in. I let the pack fall off my shoulders and set it on the small shelf on the left. I took my snowboard off the pack first, pushing the tail into the soft snow above the hole, and then hung my pack from my ice axe and tentatively took off my crampons. It was do or die time from here.

I drank down a coconut water, suddenly very thirsty, then put everything back into my pack, including my crampons. I removed the board and placed the nose into the wall above the hole, bridging the gap, then stood on the middle and pushed the heel into the snow on the ledge where I had not dug out. I then placed my right foot on the tail.

Nothing moved.

I held the slope behind me and placed my left foot into the front binding, cinching it down. I then followed with the back foot. Yippee! I felt a return of confidence as the board was in place. I removed my pack from my ice axe, added the whippet to the pack and then put it on.

It was then that I heard the skiers coming down the Princess Lea couloir. One at a time. The first skier stopping just down to my left where my line linked with the main couloir. I called over and said I was coming down so I wouldn't push snow down on them.

I eased the nose out of the snow and backed the heel down onto the snow slope below. The skiing from my ledge was steep, but easy in the superb corn, and I stopped next to the skier as he waited for his partner.

"Was that you this morning climbing?" I asked with a big smile.

"Yes. That was the most terrified I've ever been in my life, and for so long." He said with a shake of his head.

Yeah, don't I know it.

From there, well, the couloir was ours.