August Ice
Climbed 2024-08-14
A brush with Valhalla
Climbed 2024-08-14
A brush with Valhalla
From September of 2023 to August of 2024, my alpine partner Ellen was on a quest to complete an ice climb for 12 months straight. This journey began with our very first climb together - a sweet and simple AI2 line up Powell Peak in RMNP.
September ice, in and fat
Over the next 11 months, Ellen chased ice to Canada and Peru, successfully finishing an ice climb for 11 months straight. In August of 2024, she only had one climb left, and she invited me to bookend the challenge. Her sights were set on the Teton glaciers, which should hold ice year round.
So, we began the long drive out to Wyoming, about a week after my ascent of Ellingwood, feeling strong and optimistic. Little did I know, I was soon to experience the closest brush with death so far.
When we arrived, we made our way into the ranger office to grab our camping permits and ask about the ice quality. An older ranger regaled us with his stories of success out in the Tetons. The daring free solos he’d performed, the rush of sending 5.7 in hobnail boots. He certainly seemed to know his stuff, and he suggested that Enclosure Couloir would hold the ice we sought.
When we arrived, we made our way into the ranger office to grab our camping permits and ask about the ice quality. An older ranger regaled us with his stories of success out in the Tetons. The daring free solos he’d performed, the rush of sending 5.7 in hobnail boots. He certainly seemed to know his stuff, and he suggested that Enclosure Couloir would hold the ice we sought.
I know less about this route than any other that I’ve climbed. I went almost completely hands off with the planning here, entrusting it to Ellen so I could focus on my upcoming exam. Ellen is even more of a research junkie than me though, so I trusted her completely.
In general, the climb entails a 6 mile approach up to campsites shared with the Exum ridge climbers, over steep but tame terrain.
From there, it is another 3-4 miles around the Valhalla Traverse, a 4th class ring to the back of the Tetons. We didn’t know it at the time, but this traverse is typically done with a bit of consolidated snow left over.
The route ends with an ascent of the Enclosure Couloir - about 6 pitches of AI3 and 5.6 climbing.
Ellen works her way across thin ledges
I often joke that climbers who die in the mountains go to a sort of Valhalla. They die in the war with themselves, and they are rewarded with an eternity of climbing and self-discovery. Maybe not such a bad way to go.
Our climb was largely uneventful up to the campsites and traverse. However, once we diverted paths from the Exum climbers, things pretty quickly went wrong. We instantly got lost in the maze of ledges and gullies that form the mountain’s West face, losing hours to constant backtracks and map reviews. At one point, we even started up an ice pitch before realizing that it wasn’t our couloir.
False start on thin ice
My resolve began to weaken, but I wasn’t going to let Ellen down. I knew how important this challenge was to her.
As I mentioned before, the Valhalla traverse is typically done with a little bit of snow. Without a little ice and snow to hold everything together, it is a steep, loose nightmare. On wider sections of the traverse, this was manageable with careful footing and slow moving. But manageable quickly turned deadly when we turned a corner.
Our next step was to ascend up a steep slope of yellow, sandy mud mixed with tumbled talus. Ellen deftly climbed up a stack of rocks, easily making her way into the entrance of the couloir.
But when I followed behind, I began to panic. Every rock I touched was unstable. Each movement shifted the entire stack, like I was balanced atop a house of cards. About 30 feet beneath us, the slope emptied out onto a cliff, at least a thousand feet high. Rocks tumbled past me, dropping into the abyss.
Then, all at once, everything shifted. My foot slipped, and the entire house of cards collapsed down around my calf. I tried shifting my weight to escape, but the pressure of my foot was the only thing keeping the rocks in place. If I moved even an inch, the entire stack, and me, were going down that thousand foot cliff.
I fought to control my breathing, begging Ellen to help. I couldn’t move, and my calf was beginning to cramp up from holding up the weight of the stones.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I got out of this. Ellen just so happened to have a #2 cam on her harness, even though most of our gear was still racked. She just so happened to be right next to a #2 crack, and she was able to throw it in, attach cord, and throw it down to me within 30 seconds.
I grabbed the rope and tied in, and not a moment later, the entire slope slid out beneath me. I just sat, dumbstruck, as torso sized stones flew off the cliff, echoing around the canyon.
I kept my cool long enough to join her at a ledge, and we built an anchor and rappelled down. I insisted that we go no further, and I spent the next several hours just looking out over the cliff, trapped inside my mind.
Looking down the cliff where I would have landed
I often imagine that climbers who die in the mountains go to a sort of Valhalla. They die in the war with themselves, and they are rewarded with an eternity of climbing and self-discovery.
That’s a load of crap. There is no glory in a death in the mountains. It’s scary. Embarrassing. And someone has to explain to your family that, even though you were performatively safe, even though you swore to them that you took all the precautions, you died to get on top of a stupid rock.
For all my pomp, I almost died in the same way that dozens of climbers go a year. Not on some crazy first ascent. Not pushing my limits on an 8,000m. No, I almost died by grabbing a loose rock during the approach to a climb.
I didn’t really know what to do with this at first. A week later I tried top-roping in a gym, and I had a panic attack 10 feet off the ground. I didn’t give my friends or family any details. It was such a simple story, and an embarrassing one. It’s hard to reconcile the mundane reality of the situation with the intense personal experience. A brush with death isn’t a fun party story. A piece of myself is still up there, hanging on the side of a cliff.
Obviously, my perspective has changed since. I regained my confidence on the Wham Grand Slam, and I will never stop climbing. But this experience shattered any illusions I might have. Death in the mountains isn’t epic or cool. This is literally a game of life and death, and I would do well to respect it. To rope up a bit more often, and to treat every single route with the same amount of preparation. Ultimately, this climb will be marker of my transition from a bold climber to an old climber. I won’t be caught here again.