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Getting
Off Eli
Helmuth
Perched partway up the north buttress of Mt. Hunter,
Majka and I contemplated the vast and vertical terrain
above, and now below us. We had been waiting on weather
at the base of this mind-blowing wall for some days,
sharpening and re-sharpening our tools. But once
the weather seemed to be done with its rave, we wasted
no time in dragging our haul bag and ropes over to
the base of the buttress and first setting crampon
on what is likely the longest and most sought after
ice climb in the world: The Moonflower.
I
immediately visualized the fantastic ice and granite
crux pitches ahead instead of noticing the
water running under our front-points and the fact
that we were wearing few clothes on a wall known
for finger- and toe-numbing cold. I was ready to
forge ahead. Majka on the other hand, was paying
close attention to the water pooling in the elbows
of her jacket, and had a fresh perspective on alpinism
that kept her from being overly influenced by the
strength and perseverance of those who had preceded
us up this great north wall. I, the veteran Alaskan,
was like a moth going to flame.
We shared water at the belay. Majka tapped
on the ice with her hammer. “Sounds hollow,” she
said. It wasn’t a question, and I knew
she was really asking me what I thought. She
would trust my answer. There is a moment in
every true partnership where you lay out your
fears and look to the other for assurance,
or to rectify them. “Do
you really think we should be up here?”
The
moment she said it, I knew she was right.
Waking me from my ice-induced euphoria, I saw the
bigger picture and with a look above at the
hundreds of tons of snow and ice perched above
our heads, I had a moment of clarity. Although
I had dreamed so many times of the “Shaft” crux
ice pitch and then higher up to slip through the “Bibler
come again exit” only to endure the
long hard climb to the summit and back, I
didn’t
want it bad enough to risk our lives. Even
though I knew this reality, I resented each
V-thread we made and cursed the clouds that
swallowed us as we descended.
At
the base, I couldn’t keep from looking up
longingly at what was to have been our great
Alaskan ascent. “We were blowing it,” was
what my desire was saying and I couldn’t
hide from my disappointment. Normally, climbers
have to live with a decision like this and
hope that it was the right one—that
fear or uncertainty didn’t
ruin their best hope of sending the route.
Us? We had heartbreaking and gruesome validation.
Already high-up on the same route, a veteran alpine
team battled with their own dreams but instead, realized
the nightmare. While belaying one of the crux mixed
pitches, Steve Mascioli was killed by a car-sized
chunk of snow that, without warning, detached from
the wall above him. His partner, Alan Kearney, was
then faced with an epic self-rescue and descent of
more than 30 rappels alone. When we met him at the
base of the wall after watching the final part of
his solo descent, I was faced with the pain of how
it might have felt to be the survivor of such a loss.
Eli
Helmuth
With
3,000 paid days in the mountains under his belt in
almost 20 years as a professional mountain guide,
Eli Helmuth has been out with almost every type of
person in every type of weather and he is continually
amazed by the strength of the human spirit. He really
likes the feel of chalk on his fingers, a Guinness
in hand and powder under his skis, preferably not
all at the same time.
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The
Shark's Mouth Jonny
Kopp
I
awoke to ice and snow squeezing down around us.
The tent walls collapsed until there was nothing
left inside but the seconds until the unimaginable.
I fought to keep an air space as the cement-like
mass pushed us deeper into the crevasse. Time stretched,
just like in a dream I’d had, and there was
no up or down. The space worth fighting for was
lost and gained several times before a tent pole
hit my nose. My hands latched the aluminum rod,
snapped it and tore through the suffocating fabric.
I reached and pulled as if swimming up through
molasses. Then motion ended in the black frozen
air at 19,500 feet. The slope had set, and my head
was above the surface.
During
a monster Himalayan storm, which eventually took
dozens of lives, Chuck Bird, Sarah Thompson, Pete
Takeda and I had taken shelter in a crevasse on
a mountain called Nanda Kot, in Northern India.
Our two tents were chiseled into the blue ice and
snow of the pit’s upper
flanks. The hole dropped into the mountain perpendicular
to the outer slopes and gradually bent downward
into the void. Miraculously, the avalanche that
poured in just after midnight left us all alive.
Pete had grabbed an ice screw and Chuck’s
arm just as their tent was crushed. Sarah and
I had been pushed farther, coming to rest two
feet above the hole’s bottomless, spiraling
depths.
After
extracting ourselves and finding a headlamp buried
in the tent, we faced the fact that all of our
boots were missing. There would be no way down
the steep ice without them. So we dug. We dug with
our hands and the one recovered axe for six hours,
until our feet went numb, until we were out of
breath, until we had given up a few times, until
we dislodged all four pairs of boots, the ice tools
and the stove from the tons of settled debris.
Morning
light sifted in through the storm. Icicles hung
from our five-foot tall cave entrance. Outside
there was nothing but white. We lit the stove
and huddled around its perceived warmth and the
warmth of each other. We sat atop our shredded
tents and took inventory: gear, fuel, psyche, location.
Then, just as we began to relax, another train
wreck of an avalanche tore down over our heads.
I jumped up to standing, still in my mummy bag,
and braced. Suddenly it was dark again.
We
were now sealed into the crevasse. A headlamp popped
on, then another, illuminating the pale blue
serac ice and the new, white compact snow. Pete
and I began to dig what eventually became a fifteen-foot
long wormhole through the consolidated snow pack.
We poked our heads out like prairie dogs. Our
old camp was now underneath twenty feet of snow.
The ice dome above us would continue to shed. We
took deep breaths and then tunneled back to our
space inside the mountain, back to Chuck and Sarah,
back to the silence of our uncertainty.
Leaving
the icy chamber would mean one of two things,
we had run out of fuel or the storm and avalanches
had stopped. The fear of never leaving this place
was tangible. The fear of leaving this place
was real. Starring up at the overarching ice, its
creeping plastic flow became apparent. Rows of
arm-thick icicles had formed and were folding up
underneath themselves like the conveyor belts of
teeth that grow in a shark’s
mouth. Ten feet below was the crevasse’s
bottomless void that had threatened to
consume us. Sitting calm in the middle
took some doing.
Distraction
is handy. But like any drug it wears off. Chopping
a better sitting space, playing 21 questions,
brewing up tepid water for the group,
tepid to save fuel. All of these activities helped
to pass the time. But by day three, there
was no escaping the hanging roof above,
the avalanches outside, the pit below or
the real question of mortality. I’ve been
there before, on the edge of my own mind, but never
for this long. Most life-threatening events last
a few seconds at most: a car accident, whippers,
rock fall, a gunshot, et cetera. This was different.
We were being held hostage by a completely unsympathetic
force. Lying there, squirming in my head for a
while about the end and the questions that proceed,
eventually gave way to the “what” questions.
Thinking about exactly what I was, what
this place was, what time meant. The geology that
was around us, and that we are all a part of. By
day three, time in the hole had became almost enjoyable.
Observing and living that transition I found and
still find fascinating.
The
storm eventually lifted and the slopes outside
began to stabilize. We had half of a can of fuel
left between the four of us, enough for a fraction
of a day. We tunneled for the last time out of
our cocoon and climbed into the crystal clear air
and sun. The colors seemed to vibrate off of every
molecule. There was an electricity to life that
made our presence there worthwhile, as if we ourselves
were creating the world around us.
Jonny
Kopp
Jonny
Copp, born in Singapore in 1974, has climbed new
routes in Argentina, Pakistan, Alaska, Chile, Northwest
Territories and other steep places, including the
first alpine style ascent of Grade VII. All of his
limbs and body parts are still in good working order.
Jonny’s photography and writing has been published
in magazines, journals, books and film: www.coppworks.com.
JC is also the founder of the Boulder Adventure Film
Festival, an event dedicated to activists, independent
filmmakers and adventurers: www.BoulderAdventureFilm.com.
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What
Do You Need? Phil
Powers
In
spite of the independent spirit of most climbers,
creative and unique as we all are, the American
Alpine Club (AAC) is a climber’s collective
built purely to help us in our wild pursuit. We
helped launch early expeditions to K2 and the first
ascents of Hidden Peak and Mount Vinson; we represent
the United States in setting the international
standards for the equipment we use; we have funded
world-class modern ascents as well as hundreds
of young climbers on their first forays beyond
their home crag; we birthed the Access Fund in
1991, advocate for access internationally; and
provide rescue insurance to anyone who cares to
join.
Whether
you are a member or not, the AAC has been working
for climbers since 1902. From halting the eradication
of Yosemite’s Camp 4 to helping
our fellow mountain people in Pakistan when they
faced hardship after last year’s earthquake,
the AAC stands ready to help. Whether you’re
a trad or sport climber, pad person or Himalayan
hard man, the AAC is asking how we can do more
for you.
In
2007, the AAC continues to evolve with the sport
of climbing by
answering the needs of our community:
Climbers
need an international voice: Above all, we need
the vertical world. We are the only voice for American
climbers when it comes to international issues
like bringing reason to the restrictive new management
plans in Peru that would severely limit climbing
access. We join with organizations around the
world to maintain access for climbers on every
continent and especially here at home.
Climbers
need alpine ecosystems: The AAC helps us care
for what we love. High mountains represent extraordinary
biodiversity, are sources of fresh water and
will be islands of safety for flora, fauna—and
climbers—in a warming world.
The AAC has launched the Alpine Conservation
Partnership to help save alpine ecosystems around
the world. We initiated the Clean Mountain Can
program on Denali, WAG bag disbursement in Indian
Creek and our regional sections support countless
trail-building events across the country.
Climbers
need beta: The AAC has huge information resources
that, until recently, have resided only in
the western hemisphere’s largest climbing
library and the American Alpine Journal.
Now you can check out our online catalog, choose
a book, and we will send it to any member,
anywhere, on our dime. As you read this sentence,
we’re
making the AAJ available and searchable
online.
Climbers
need a place to hang: Since 1970 the AAC has operated
the Grand Teton Climbers’ Ranch.
Now we seek new AAC facilities where
climbers need them, like the Gunks, where a new
campground will open in 2008. Members have the
same access to the extensive Canadian hut system
as Alpine Club of Canada members, as well as
hut discounts in any UIAA member country.
Climbers
need help when things go bad: Our worldwide rescue
insurance is free to members and we’re
working to make it even more comprehensive.
Climbers
need money: The AAC offers more grant money
to climbers than any other organization in the
U.S. In 2007, AAC grants for climbers will exceed
$50,000.
Climbers
need partners: Above all, AAC members are in it
for each other.
To join the American Alpine Club or renew
or apply for one of the grants, go to www.AmericanAlpineClub.org.
And
let us know what you want.
Phil
Powers
Black
Diamond is a proud to support the AAC. Like
all teams, the AAC is only as strong as its
members. If you’re not already a member,
please join the AAC and lend your support.
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