The Iceman Cometh

Chasm Lake looks dwarfed like a fallen raindrop below the massive east face of Longs Peak in Colorado’s Rocky Mountain National Park. The glassy water mirrors cobalt June skies—and the orange of my tent, staked to the rocky shoreline. This lake is the staging ground for some of the best climbing in North America, and I will have to do some of my best if I hope to survive the challenge I have planned. To the west an impressive face called The Diamond crowns a 300-degree Hollywood Bowl-like amphitheater, stretching just steeper than vertical for more than 1,500 feet to 14,255 feet, the highest point in the park. Walls of rock, snow, and ice—legendary for their intimidating and dangerous climbing routes—stretch for a mile in each direction.

At the southern tip of this curving wall towers Mt. Meeker, its 13,999-foot summit often underestimated in the shadow of its famous neighbor. Two giant columns of pristine rock stretch from the base to the granite summit. Between them, buried in the shadows, lies my objective—a narrow, treacherous, icy gully stretching upward for 2,000 feet. Its name: The Dream Weaver.

My partner Jeremy and I leave our camp around 5 a.m., just as the sun is spreading over Denver and the eastern plains. I am nervous about the climb to come—my senses sharpened by the frozen morning stillness. I hoist my small pack—stuffed with clothing, food, first-aid kit, a rope, a variety of clanking hardware, crampons, and two ice axes—and set forth up the slope, still white with residual snow in late spring.

Back to the History Books

Ice and snow climbing was pioneered in the Far East in ancient times, out of necessity, by farmers chasing their herds up the glacial foothills of the Himalayas. Colonial Brits observed this mountain travel and imported it to Europe, turning mountaineering into sport around the turn of the 20th century. Using leather boots and primitive iron-smithed spikes strapped loosely to their feet with worn leather, French, English and German climbers boldly competed for first ascents throughout the Bavarian and French Alps. Their axes were long and unbalanced, preventing a full and effective swing. Their crampons were feeble, and of little help on steep ice. Despite these shortcomings, fearless men accomplished some of the most difficult mountaineering feats in the world, using methods and gear that today would be considered suicidal. Chamonix, France’s Aguille Vert, was first climbed in 1928. The north face of the Matterhorn was climbed in 1931, and the infamous north face of the Eiger, in 1936. Ice climbing advanced in the decades that followed, but it wasn’t until a full 30 years later that climber Yvon Chouinard—founder of what is now Black Diamond Equipment, and later the adventure clothing manufacturer Patagonia—helped develop a short and sporty axe and a curved pick that would allow more secure purchase on steep ice. Yosemite’s El Capitan had been climbed two years earlier, in 1964, using an arsenal of prototypical hardware that Chouinard was also instrumental in designing. Climbing had entered an era of technological advancement that would enable safer and bolder ascents of routes previous considered impossible.

Within 20 minutes the snowy pitch steepens, and the vast swath of whiteness narrows into the Dream Weaver. I lock my crampons—steel platforms with 2-inch sharpened spikes resembling the jaws of a great white—onto the bottom of my boots. Ice axe in hand, I remind myself that my gear will prevent me from slipping on these lower flanks—a reality I always doubt in the first few moments after stepping onto a steep snow slope in the mountains.

My equipment, evolved models of the tools designed by legendary climber Yvonn Chouinard, is the best available. Still, I don’t feel secure. Kicking steps into the icy shell, I proceed up the ramp that leads into the narrowing couloir—a steep mountain drainage filled with ice, rock, and snow. My toes and the front points of my crampons stick directly into the 50-degree slope; my boot heels hang out into space. I use my axe for balance and to arrest my fall should I begin to slide back down the ramp. Later I will need it to pull myself upward. Jeremy, more experienced than I, steps comfortably up this ladder of hardened snow, steadily increasing the distance between us, and leaving me gasping with anxiety and straining the 12,500-ft air for molecules my lungs can use.

Gradually and almost imperceptibly, the snow gets steeper, until I look down between my legs and see my footprints sweeping away for more than 900 vertical feet. A small block of ice, loosened from beneath my feet, tumbles out of sight, bouncing farther and farther down the slope with every turn. Above me the black rock encroaches from both sides until it narrows to a space barely wider than my shoulders. Here running water from the spring snowmelt has frozen, presenting me with a narrow runnel of vertical solid ice. The ever-steepening pitch inches closer to my face until my breath melts the ice-granules before me. I feel claustrophobic. I want to lean back and away from the ice, but away means down, and I cling to my perch instead. Balancing my wholesome motivation with the tangible risk inherent to mountaineering is always easier said than done, and I try to rationalize my desire for excitement, a sense of accomplishment, and a fresh perspective on my natural environment.

The rope remains coiled neatly on top of my pack. Comfortable with travel on the slopes below, Jeremy and I had opted to climb solo—without being secured by the rope—in hopes of summitting and descending the mountain quickly before an afternoon storm. Roped travel was slow, but I am beginning to regret my decision. I stop to rest, unable to confidently move upward toward my waiting partner. Should I go down? Should I take a belay? (the secure safety system where your partner is rigged to catch your fall using a rope) Or am I over-reacting? I have a knack for fearing things in the mountains that are well within my level of ability and experience. Is this just another instance of being too timid to climb at my true potential?