Pullharder.org » Winter Club

Cold Truth: First Winter Ascent of Deborah and a Linkup to Remember.

Gil — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 04:04:42 +0000

Darkness. My moms eyes were still open, but all she saw was darkness. I was not even with her the moment she died, but I had watched her life end slowly over the previous weeks and months. The expression on her face was not peaceful like you see in the movies. Her dried mouth was open in an expression of shock, her eyes were the same beautiful hazel they had always been, but now they looked milky and saw nothing. Had her death been unexpected or sudden, I would have been crying, but her death was a relief. She had suffered for weeks, and I had suffered with her, helpless. Nothing left to do but keep on moving…

Darkness. Scotty kicked me through our sleeping bags and said we had overslept our 3am alarm. It was tough for me to comprehend since I didn‘t think I had actually fallen asleep. I had been laying restlessly in the back of my VW van, looking forward to our 3am alarm with the same mixture of dread and psyche always present the night before a big alpine climb. I watched Scotty frantically eat breakfast while I suited up, refraining from eating as I always do right before a big day. We were on the trailhead at about 420am. A little later than we wanted to be, but there was nothing we could do about it. Just keep moving…

The mountains can be gnarly, but cancer is worse. Her new house was waiting for her, along with me and my sister. The nest was full once again. But one month later a doctor told my mom that her melanoma from 5 years before had returned. My sister and I listened to the doctor tell our mom that people with her condition live 2 years on average, she died a couple months later. I stared out the hospital window at the Rocky Mountains. How could this be happening!? I felt like my reality was slipping away, being pulled down, down, down…but the worst was yet to come.

(roping up at the base of the West Gully, II, WI3)

The wind was howling and despite a blue-skied dawn, snow swirled around the Black Lake cirque so hard that sunglasses were necessary to look forward. We took shelter beneath an overhanging boulder and geared up. We left our snowshoes, poles, extra food/water, and Scotty’s pack under this boulder and kicked steps up to the base of the West Gully. We doubled up the single 8.1mm rope and simulclimbed through about 300 feet of easy WI2-3. I topped out the ice and began walking up windblown snow, while Scotty removed the last piece of protection between us, a stubby ice screw placed in a thin slab of verglass. All of a sudden I was pulled down and started sliding sideways back towards the ice, tugged down by the rope, down, down, down…instinct took over. I drove my tools deep into the snow, straightened my body and frantically kicked my toes into the ground. I stopped moving inches before I was dragged back onto the ice slabs. I slung a small shrub, connected it to my tools which were buried deep in the snow attached to my harness via weight bearing tethers, and I put Scotty on belay. I had stopped Scotty’s fall and our subsequent death by self-arresting. I should have placed more protection, but this was one “should have” that didn‘t kill us in the mountains. It was not our time to tumble down the west gully, it was our time to send.

Its early 2005 and I am frantically driving my jeep from Washington DC back to NY. My mom has been diagnosed with skin cancer. Luckily she will only need surgery to remove the lump on her back. For the first time in my life the roles are reversed, I am taking care of my mother with the same love and drive she had taking care of me all those years. I miss several weeks of my senior year of college. I stay with my mom as she recovers from surgery. I don’t yet have the lessons I will learn in the mountains. A year later I am living in San Diego, getting into rock climbing at a local gym, when I see an add in a climbing magazine for the Climb To Fight Breast Cancer. Even though my mom had melanoma, the inspiration begins to well inside my chest. 6 months later I summit Mt. Ranier after raising $5000 for cancer research. My lifelong obsession with the mountains has begun, and I owe it to the inspiration my mom relentlessly showered upon me. If she could suffer through cancer, I could suffer getting to the top of any mountain. If she could be reborn, so could I.

(Deborah, III, M3/4, follows the obvious vertical gully)

I packed up the rope and the gear in my pack and began to kick steps up to the base of part 2 of our planned linkup. Climbing is a team effort and being in better shape than Scotty, I had decided it would be beneficial if I carried the majority of the weight and kicked steps. Had we been on a multipitch rock climb, Scotty would have been leading the cruxes and carrying the load, but this was my time to step it up. Speed is safety in the mountains, and movement is essential for warmth and psyche. We began climbing up the couloir that splits the South face of Arrowhead peak. I could not find any evidence of it being climbed in summer or winter, and so we did not know what to expect. We soloed through 3 or 4 constrictions of M2-4. After climbing through a harder section near the top, I unpacked the rope and belayed Scotty up. He scrambled the final 30 feet or so to the ridge and coiled the rope as I topped out the couloir. The final 60 feet of the couloir splits into right and left exit options. The left is steeper and contained no snow or ice. We had chosen the right option. We’re pretty sure this was a first winter ascent. In any case, it is unnamed, so I called it Deborah. I hope others find adventure on this route, and enjoy its great climbing and beautiful position in the mountains.

(the last mixed constriction before the right exit section at the top of Deborah)

Gael Deborah Shern never climbed a mountain, but she was there with me on every summit and her inspiration comes to me when my own energy starts to waiver. My mom instilled things in me that were necessary prerequisites for climbing. Things like confidence, dedication, and humility. She taught me that great gains can come from self-sacrifice, and that love comes to those who spread love. When I was 11 or 12 years old, I spent my free time playing basketball and riding my bike around our Queens, NY neighborhood. There were many children in the park who most parents didnt want their kids playing with; children whose parents did not accompany them to the park or take them for pizza and sodas afterwards. My mom encouraged me to mingle with everyone, at least to give them a chance. But when my mom invited a boy from the park to come get pizza with us, I was uneasy. He had dirt under his fingernails and his clothing looked ragged. I kept silent but told my mom later that I didnt want to be his friend because he was dirty. She told me that some of the best people in the world have dirt on their hands, and she was right.

(the author doing some summit shennanigans at the top of Arrowhead, the ridge to McHenry’s is in the background)

I had shown pictures of the Deborah couloir to anyone of my climbing friends who cared to sit still. “Nah bro, I’m sure that’s been climbed.” was the typical answer. But I thought about what my mom would say, which undoubtedly would be along the lines of “go for it Gilly, who cares if its been climbed or not?” There is a thin line between passion and obsession. Ever since my mom got sick and subsequently passed away, I have been obsessed with “doing an FA” and naming it after her. Before I left the trailhead that morning I had resolved the issue of obsession in my mind. I was not going to let it infringe on my greatest passion in life. I had uncovered my obsession for what it really was…fear, “the mind killer.” Fear that climbing a new route was the only way to immortalize my mom. Now we stood at the top of Arrowhead peak with “our new route” below us. The fear had vanished in a flurry of upward momentum, and my mind was focused not on making history, but on making it home in time for happy hour. We looked ahead at the last remaining portion of our linkup…the ridge between Arrowhead and McHenry’s. It looked big.

One of the earliest memories I have of my mother is of her picking me up at school when I was sick, or pretending to be. Its not that my mom never doubted my claims of feeling ill while at school, but I can’t remember s single time she refused to come pick me up and spend the day with me, usually pointing out jokingly that I had dropped my sick act. I learned early on that it was tough to bullshit my mom, just as I would learn its impossible to bullshit the mountains. The memory I have is a generic one. I sit in the nurses office feeling a little guilty about feigning sickness, waiting for my mom to come through the door and save me from the horrors of elementary school. I would know when she was down the hall, because I would hear the clinking of her giant set of keys dangling from her bag, then smell her shalamar pefume as she came into the office with that giant hairsprayed fro.

(the author linking snowpatches to the right of the McHenry’s ridge)

Scotty and I never roped up on the ridge. Instead we stayed slightly to the climbers right of the steep droppoff into Glacier Gorge and climbed solo up snow and mixed ramps. I topped out 30 minutes or so before Scotty and sat at the top of McHenry’s enjoying an atypical windless Colorado summit. I couldn‘t see Scotty coming up the final snow/rock ramp, but I knew he was close. I heard his ice tools striking the random rock, and the jingle of the carabiners slung around his shoulder. It had taken us about 9 hours from the trailhead to link up The West Gully, Deborah, and the Arrowhead-McHenry’s ridge. I forgot all about the possibility that we had or had not put up an FA. My mom would never get to see a view like the one we had now, but she would have been more than content to listen to the story of the climb and look at the pictures over a nice bowl of soup she would have had ready for us when we got back to the Front Range.

(Scotty on a routine cornice inspection atop McHenry’s peak)

(Scotty demonstrating perfect alignment on the summit of McHenry’s with the West face of Long’s Peak in the background)

The mountains will be around for us to climb as long as we live, and when we are too old and fragile to get to their summits, we can take comfort in the memories, read our accounts, look at our photos, laugh at our naivety, and long for our youth. The people we climb with and who encourage us to climb will not be around forever. Cherish your time with those folks you love, and although their bodies will be reduced to ash, the flame they bring to your life will burn eternally.

In Memory of Gael Deborah Shern…mother, sister, wife, inspiration. 1948-2009

(The author, his sister Galit, and Gael Deborah Shern at Galit’s high school graduation)

Wolski goes to France…and sends!

Gil — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 15:59:54 +0000

Mont Blanc du Tacul, Gabarrou-Albinoni. III 4+. 500 m. “La grande classique de la face E du Mont Blanc du Tacul.”

An alpine route climbed on Monday, March 16, 2009, just in time to sneak into the pullharder.org Winter Club.

-The Approach-

The Gabarrou-Albinoni has been on my partner’s tick list ever since he climbed the adjacent Modica-Noury, III, 5+, 500 m with a guide over a decade ago. He has a mischievous habit of plastering Alta stickers all over Chamonix which I’m sure pisses off the sticklers at the Compagnie du Mont Blanc. I’ll refer to him as Dr. Dan. The guidebook describes the route as “a grand classic couloir on the east face of Mont Blanc du Tacul.”

Climbing the Gabarrou starts with rolling out of bed in the valley for a Chamonix Alpine Start. A quick and painless ride up the Aiguille du Midi telepherique to 3842 meters is the first leg of the lazy man’s approach and leaves an hour ski tour to the base of the route. The Gabarrou itself involves surmounting a bergschrund, several pitches of steep, sugary snow interspersed with mixed steps, more unconsolidated snow, and finally the bread and butter, 4 long pitches of sinker alpine ice. This is where the “route” itself ends, but the actual summit of Mont Blanc du Tacul lies beyond. The objective hazards of topping out and descending from the summit back to your skis deter all but super-alpinists, crazies, Type-3 fun enthusiasts, and those who don’t know any better from continuing on. Most descend the route via sporadic rappel stations along the granite walls of the couloir and some down climbing. What’s left? Oh, a 20ish kilometer ski run down the Vallee Blanche back to town where a fridge full of cold beer awaits – just don’t fall into a crevasse along the way.

My goal for this trip was to ski as much as possible, especially off piste. I got lucky and arrived just in time for a storm and enjoyed a few days of epic powder skiing. Unfortunately, blustery winds followed, scouring the higher elevations, leaving ice and wind slab. We skinned and hiked and searched for good snow but couldn’t find any. Enter Plan B – go climbing.

A little disclaimer: this route was my first journey into true alpine terrain and at heart I’m an armchair mountaineer.

(Dan approaching the route on skis. The route follows the snow ramps clearly visible in the middle of the picture. The snow gives way to ice about halfway up, right where the shadows begin in the image. We tried to be quick, but unfortunately another party was quicker so we spent the morning dodging their debris.)

-The Ascent-

Click out of your skis, strap on your crampons, uncoil the ropes, tie in, grab your tools, kick some steps, and whoa! check out the bergschrund. Dan went first without any fuss. I mumbled: “Please don’t punch through the snow bridge. Please don’t blow a tool and plunge into the crevasse.” Did I sign up for this? As I was about to scratch my way over the lip and belly flop onto the snow ramp above, I caught a glimpse of Dan digging in. A moment later, he graciously pulled the rope taut. If I had slipped, I’m not certain Dan’s belay would have held, but it definitely added a psychological advantage. (Way to jump on the grenade, buddy!) Later on, I decided this was the technical crux of the route.

I didn’t enjoy climbing the snow ramps leading up to the ice. We didn’t bring any snow pickets or rock gear, and I think it’s safer to untie and put the ropes away than to simul without a running belay; suicide rope pacts aren’t for me. Pilot error doesn’t worry me nearly so much as getting knocked off my stance by an errant missile and dragging my partner along for the big ride – or vice versa.

At one point, I looked up, wondering why it was raining snow, just in time to see a rock heading my way. I shifted my hips and it passed between my legs nicking my left inner thigh, uncomfortably close to my junk (my girlfriend was scheduled to arrive the next day). My mouth tasted metallic. Objective hazards scare me. By the time I caught up with Dr. Dan at the first “belay,” I was wet and cold from being showered with snow and feeling a bit edgy. We packed a belay jacket but decided to leave it with the skis at the base of the route. I was cold and wanted to keep moving to stay warm so I grumbled a bit, grabbed the screws and the screamers, and started up the pitch. I’m not very much of an ice climber but the ice was very climbable. My placements felt solid, the shafts of my tools vibrated reassuringly when my picks bit into the ice. Swing, “thwack,” “screech.” I settled into a pleasant rhythm of swing-kick-kick, swing-kick-kick and moved steadily up the pitch.

I can’t see a damn thing without my glasses. I dread placing screws because any time I stop, the fog rolls in, and I hate leading ice while peering over the rims of my glasses, trying to see what I’m swinging at. The ice wasn’t very thick and we only brought a few stubbies, so I didn’t have many screws to place. Problem solved.

(The author leading the first pitch of ice.)

There’s not much to say other than the ice section went smooth. I brought Dr. Dan up, re-racked, and kept on going; he generously gave me the sweet leads.

(Dr. Dan following the first pitch of ice. In a former life, he was an eye surgeon. On his last ice climbing trip, a sliver of ice slipped behind his glacier goggles, poking him in the eye, which scared him enough to buy a helmet with a clear plastic face shield. In preparation for this route, we got drunk on Bavarian malt liquor while he decorated his new helmet with psychedelic mushroom stickers – wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea.)

(Looking up the second pitch of ice. I hugged the left side and was able to catch a quick rest here and there by leaning my back against the rock. It was surreal to be climbing a route in the Alps.)

(Dr. Dan leading the third pitch of ice. I snapped this picture after kicking out a platform to stand on at the belay. The activity kept my mind off the belay jacket we decided to leave at the base of the route.)

(The snow/icey fourth pitch.)

(A view of the Vallee Blanche from our high point. Shadows were already starting to settle over our highway home. After much dabbling in rock, ice, and backcountry skiing, it was nice to put all these skills together to make it happen for a few hours in the mountains. As my Dad is known to say, “Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn sometimes”.)

(Dr. Dan working his way down the rappels. If there’s anything I have a lot of practice at, it’s bailing, so I took over setting up the rappels from here. Nothing like a pair of old pins, a tangle of sun-bleached shoestring, and a rusty quick-link for an anchor. Did I mention the pins were hammered behind rotten flakes?)

-The Descent-

I took myself off rappel, shouted “clear,” and started gently down to my skis. Dan followed and we packed without saying much. The sun was fading fast and we still had to ski the majority of the Vallee Blanche back to town. The light was flat and it was getting colder. Dan skied off and I remember it being very quiet, alone and surrounded entirely by snow, rock, and ice.

Several days ago, we had skied the Vallee Blanche with a group of friends. We stopped for lunch, snapped some pictures, took our time. The visibility was good. There were even some powder stashes, and overall, it was a blast. This time, the visibility was poor, it was icy, and we were carrying packs full of climbing gear. We were in a hurry. I underestimated how burned my legs were from ripping powder laps the week before (not that I was complaining) and how demanding it is to make turns with weight on your back. Dan says he’s skied the Vallee Blanche in 45 minutes and I believe him, but I was in no condition to break any speed records. To lighten my load, he offered to take both ropes. Dan is a salty old dog. I made a dozen turns, waited for my legs to come back, and repeated the sequence, trying to balance the need make the most of the remaining daylight by hurrying against not falling into a crevasse or otherwise getting injured. Dan kept yelling useful shit at me like “WATCH OUT FOR THE BIG CRACK IN THE SNOW BRIDGE,” but I couldn’t hear a fucking thing because my edges were making all sorts of noise grating over the ice. This is how we picked our way down the glacier.

The last 1000 meters involves some serious combat skiing. In the dead of winter when there’s plenty of snow, I’m sure it’s no big deal, especially after-hours. But in late March, most people take the cog train rather than ski back to town. Since we were a little behind schedule, that wasn’t an option. But we made it. Dan had the foresight to park the car close to where the trail spits us out and we skied almost all the way to the car to conclude a fun-filled day of Type-2 fun in the high Alps.

(Being in a hurry, we didn’t stop to snap pictures on our way down so instead, we posed for this one several days later at the terminus of the Argentiere glacier. Born to pull hard, notice Dan’s excellent form. The glacier used to extend much further down into the Chamonix Valley, but thanks to the greenhouse gasses released into the atmosphere by people who, amongst making other poor choices, indulge in air travel to ski, climb, and vacation in distant lands, it’s receded significantly of late. In the background is the first leg of the famous ski tour, the Haute Route.)

We were having some Type-1 fun at the Grands Montets. Dan was up to his old tricks, plastering the Bouchard gondola with Alta stickers. I was up to my knees in fresh powder. The next day, we got another half-meter of hero snow and killed it all day long, followed by beers, bed, and a flight back to the States.

When Matt isn’t climbing in Chamonix, he enjoys skiing the “Best Snow on Earth” in the Wasatch backcountry with his time-share dog, Blue. If anyone wants the rundown on dirt-bagging in Cham, he’s definitely not the one to ask but he’d still be happy to chat you up: llliiil@yahoo.com.

Chamonix Alpine Start (CAS) – wake up around 6:00 a.m. in your warm bed, slam down a baguette smothered in Nutella, and drink a cup of strong coffee. Drive to the tram, unload your gear, and get in line to wait for it to start running. Hiring a guide to herd you down the Vallee Blanche ensures you a spot on the 8:10 a.m. car and all the advantages of an early start, so feel free to give all the noobs – “…What’s a crevasse?” – the stink-eye. After all, as an alpine climber, you’re at the top of the food chain. No worries. Soon you’ll be at 3842 meters, almost on top of the world; so for 36 euros, that’s less than a penny per meter and well worth it given the difficulties of the approach otherwise. Thanks to its network of lifts and trams, it’s easy to be “all about the down” in Chamonix. But be on the first car and be fast at skiing in, racking up, and getting underway, or be prepared to climb behind another party. Solitude is a rare commodity on the trade routes when conditions are ideal.

Type-3 fun – a ski descent of Couloir Jager. II D. 600m, 60 degrees (first done in 1964!) or any other highly technical “you fall, you die” scenario. It’s that chute under the giant serac clearly visible in opening photo of Mont Blanc du Tacul massif. See also other psycho shit like BASE jumping.

Armchair Mountaineer – a person, who, like the author, rather than actually going climbing, sits around and looks at guidebooks, reads the Alpine Journal, and occasionally writes up trip reports about glories past. Also considers “alcohol” one of the 4 basic food groups.

combat skiing – involves navigating narrow, steep, icy switchbacks, choked with exposed rocks, and bumps; throw in some slush and vegetation at lower elevations. Made much more arduous if 1) you care about your skis, 2) the people you’re skiing with don’t. Also, more difficult in the dark. French fries or pizza pie?

Type-2 fun – skiing a crevasse-ridden glacier, i.e. the Vallee Blanche, in the dark, with a heavy pack, tired, and dehydrated. May require jumping small gaps on skis. May seem like Type 1 fun in retrospect with a BAC of .10 or higher. As the saying goes, “It doesn’t have to be fun to be fun.”

Type-1 fun – like getting your ‘09 “climbing nudes” calendar in the mail.