this time… Over and over again I struggled to protect the climbing or construct a worthy anchor. All I had to show for the effort were shallow, wobbly holes and even less day- light to work with as twilight neared. Protection option two fared no better as the remaining rack of screws consisted of four knock-off Snargs. The faux-Snargs (call ‘em F’args as far as I’m concerned) at least penetrated the ice, usually to about ½ depth, before seizing. Perplexed, I struck harder, only to face the violent pain- turned-numbness of swinging a metal bat into a telephone pole as the pound-in baulked. Rebellious to the core, I disregarded Mother Nature’s reprimand, tied off the metal tube, and continued upward. Again and again I encoun- tered the same instance. Two tools, load-sharing with a pinch between blocks of- fered our best belay yet. My partner followed with frigid haste, yet periodically halted for eternities. He arrived with a mixture of wonder and exasperation. Dangling from slings I saw the twisted metal that seemed more apt to be found alongside the scene of a car crash than this wild and dark landscape of cold stone, snow and ice. The F’args’ metal, being softer than the coldest ice I have ever seen, had pinched shut on the cutting edge and


formed odd, almost-smiley shapes. Not only did they refuse to penetrate any deeper, but also refused to clean without chopping to excavate. Hence, my partner only cleaned the first two (clearly a faster learner than I), but only after failed attempts to twist them out. The tube itself twisted along the cleaning slot, rendering the malformed metal use- less and reducing our rack to nothing functional. Failure struck and I discovered that the mountains could in fact take something from me – pride. And by that virtue, The Mountain gave me something much greater, more useful and of a far richer value. With quiet, elegant refusal, Ka- tahdin secretly whispered: take your time, learn... While it did take time to sink in, I slowly realized – no matter the intensity of fire inside, the dark cold of north- ern winter will always have the final say. It’s a broad and complicated lesson to pass on, yet The Mountain did so with no words at all, only cold implication. What I can remember best, and most easily pass on, is a simple cliché: respect. In my youth, on the wild flanks of greatness, I learned that despite ego and its constructs, there is nothing in the will of man that holds any interest to great moun- tains.


PHOTO BY PETE BANNING


20


climber MAGAZINEism |


SEPTEMBER OCTOBER 2011 |


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