On a brisk morning in mid December, I found myself standing at the foot of a looming wall of ice, facing the conceptually simple but daunting task of hauling myself to the top. This would be no mean undertaking. The wall was sheer and blankly imposing, like a giant empty canvas, emanating a frigid aura that was almost tangible. Occasionally, the whole thing would crackle, and large chunks of ice would hurtle down the face, hitting the snow below with a meaty thump. Surveying this primordial opponent, I swallowed hard and examined my tools one more time. In each hand I clutched a short, slightly curved ax, and one stubby spike jutted from the tip of each of my boots. This gear, which only the night before had seemed so sturdy and capable, now felt almost laughably flimsy. Could I really eke my way up this wall on what amounted to little more than a knife’s edge?
This moment had been a long time coming. For months, Becca and I had been looking forward to the annual ice climbing festival held in Bozeman, Montana, and in order to get there we had embarked on a cross-country sprint that took three days and innumerable cups of viscous gas station coffee. But on a deeper level, I had been anticipating this experience for years.
When I was 13 or 14 I stumbled across a documentary called Touching the Void which tells the chilling story of two British climbers in the Andes. After one of them fell into a crevasse, his partner assumed he was dead and cut the rope which held them together. The poor chap at the other end, however, was very much alive and in excruciating pain from numerous broken bones. I’ll leave you on that cliff hanger because the show really is worth watching, but suffice it to say that instead of scaring me off mountaineering, their story pulled me in and filled me with emotions I did not yet understand. The austere beauty of the landscapes, and the rugged boldness of mountaineering captivated my imagination, but what I latched onto most were the close up shots of the two as they climbed huge walls of ice. I could almost feel the thick chiming impact of their axes and boots as they connected with the ice, and I remember thinking, “Wow, if I could see better, I would do that.”
From time to time over the following years, I would be struck by a particular sort of ennui, a longing for something vague and distant that I couldn’t place. At such times, I gravitated toward mountaineering movies. They embodied an exquisite sense of adventure that I assumed would be forever out of my reach. Without much thought, I relegated these glimpses of icey wildness to a rarely visited pedestal in a quiet corner of my mind, and there they stayed until very recently.
One of the perks of our job as traveling outdoor educators has been the opportunity to attend a slough of climbing events of all sorts, providing us a real cross-section of a previously unexplored subculture. It has been a rich experience, introducing us to some awesome people and an exciting new hobby, but most surprisingly, it has lent plausibility to my adolescent dreams of Andean exploits.
My eyes were opened abruptly, while chatting with a new friend, Dave, a short, indomitable man with close cropped gray hair and an infectious hunger for adventure. Dave works closely with an organization called Paradox Sports, a nonprofit with the mission of supporting people with disabilities as they learn to climb. As Dave described the novel world of adaptive climbing, he casually said something about, “Missing last year’s adaptive ice climbing festival.” Feeling almost caught off guard, I stopped him short.
“Hold on. Adaptive ice climbing festivals?” I wanted to confirm I’d heard correctly.
“Oh yeah. It’s a great time. You’d love it,” he answered, maintaining the same nonchalant aire. “You should come up to Bozeman. It’s really something, and I’m trying to fill the clinic, so it’d help me out.”
Before this revelation, I liked to think that after years of testing the bounds of possibility inherent in a visual impairment, I possessed a well-developed estimation of my abilities, but the bald assertion that I could ice climb if I so chose instantly disillusioned me of this notion.
Becca was sold on the idea immediately, but for some reason, I hesitated. I’ve never liked spending money on myself which contributed to my reticence (ice climbing is by no means a cheap passtime), but this felt different. I had to unlearn an assumption I’d made about myself as a teenager when I viewed my disability with deep pessimism, but after scrutinizing my preconception rationally, I realized that ice climbing was probably just as attainable as scuba diving or international travel, both of which I knew to be completely within my capabilities. Once I made this mental leap, it seemed like a no-brainer. I booked my spot in the clinic and started working sporadic sets of push ups into my daily routine.
So, as I finally shuffled up to the wall and tied myself in, I was pretty amped. This was a long time coming, and I felt like I was breaking new ground in my relationship with my vision. I hefted my right ax, rehearsed the forceful wrist flick I’d use to plant it in the ice. I reared back and swung with all the strength and precision I could muster.
“That’s a knick!” Dave yelled.
“What? What’s a knick?” I was confused. My ax had glanced off the wall in a spray of frost.
“Oh man! He cut right through it!” Someone else called.
“You cut the rope, Luke.” Dave finally offered.
Talk about anti-climax. The first swing? I mean, come on! I started apologizing profusely. Those ropes aren’t cheap either! But it turns out sticking an ice ax right through the rope that would keep me alive was really not that big a deal. In two minutes the torn piece was clipped off, and I was tied in again ready for round two.
I approached the wall with a refreshed sense of humility and a new danger to worry about, but I was determined. After a few bum swings, I successfully lodged both axes in the ice a foot or so above my head. I kicked my feet in and sat back on my heels, hanging my weight on my outstretched arms. In theory, the motion of ice climbing is pretty straightforward. I knew that from my current hanging squat position I would have to stand up on my toes while simultaneously pushing my hips into the wall and swinging one of my axes up a couple feet. This process, pithily encapsulated in the ice climbing adage “poo and screw”, is repeated over and over all the way up the wall. Of course, it’s not so simple in execution. As I began to climb, my toe spikes kept popping out of the ice resulting in some awkward dangling and hurried leg flailing. With the agility of a mountain goat, Dave scurried up an adjacent snow bank, calling out instructions and encouragement. It wasn’t pretty, but I did make it up my first route. I was so focused on the technique that I hardly noticed where I was until it came time to rappel down.
As I touched down, I couldn’t help grinning foolishly. I was ready to turn right around and head back up, but other climbers waited, just as antsy as I was to get on the wall. Adaptive climbers can generally be characterized as “overstokers”, to use a climbing term. This label denotes a climber who shuns rest, attempts climbs far beyond their comfort level, and doesn’t mind shedding a little blood in the process. Adaptive climbers don’t let ropes hang idle. These are people who grab opportunity with whatever appendages fate has left them. They pair this intensity with remarkable empathy and generosity of spirit. This community is well acquainted with suffering and exclusion, and they aren’t keen to replicate these challenges among themselves. I felt no sense of competition in the air. Instead, a chorus of encouragement and advice would follow each climber as they ascended. If you ever lose faith in the potential of the human spirit, a day of adaptive ice climbing would serve as a sure fire cure.
Over the next few hours, I climbed a number of routes, gaining confidence and gradually getting the hang of the technique, but all the while, I avoided one particular climb known as the Mustache Ride. (Yep, that’s the official name. Climbing route names are famous for their evocative imagery and creative vulgarity.) This route consisted of an enormous, thirty foot icicle (the mustache) which hung over bare rock, looking somehow both imposing and fragile. One overeager swing of an ax could bring the whole thing crashing to the ground, and I did not want to be the one to deprive the group of the most exciting climb on offer. I watched as the more advanced climbers proved their mettle on the mustache, jabbing their axes into hairline cracks and placing the points of their toe spikes on almost imperceptible chips of rock. It looked tough. Another more experienced blind climber spent a heroic 20 minutes painstakingly inching his way to the top. After watching him, I decided to leave the mustache for another day, but later when the call went out for the last climb of the day, I thought to myself, “Well, if I knock it over now no one will mind.” I stepped forward and tied in, ready to ride the stache to completion.
Fun fact about me. I hate the idea that I am keeping other people waiting, so as I planted my
tools, I felt a self-imposed sense of urgency. I wouldn’t have time to hang around or climb thoughtfully. Technique went out the window. I made my way up the narrow column of ice as fast as I could, relying on my fear of committing a social faux pas more than any ice climbing skills I possessed. My limbs screamed in protest, and at one point, my feet and left ax exploded out of the wall, leaving me swinging crazily on a poorly placed right ax. I was harnessed up, so I wasn’t really in any danger, but still, an uncontrolled fall with wickedly sharp axes in both hands sure didn’t sound appealing. I managed to stick myself back on the wall, and after climbing over one last overhanging bulge of ice, I was at the top, utterly cashed but happy.
As we hiked back to the cars, weaving among snow laden pines, my mind wandered to something Becca and I had read on the interminable drive to Bozeman. It was a passage from a dialogue between the Dali Lama and a group of scientists and philosophers concerning the nature of positive and negative emotions. I was thinking specifically of a description of the emotion known as fiero, the happiness that arises from overcoming a challenge. Before, I’d known intellectually that this emotion existed, but I had rarely felt it so poignantly applicable to myself. Crawling up a wall of ice stands in my mind as the most literal embodiment of a challenge. When I imagine the platonic ideal of adventure, I inevitably conjure images of glacial peaks and intrepid ascents, and now, I’d gotten a taste of that lofty realm. I found it exhilarating and instructive, bringing old aspirations back to the fore. I still know nothing about mountaineering, but who knows? Now, at least, I’ll be ready if the opportunity presents itself.
P.S.
If you, or someone you know, would like to climb some jagged mountain in the company of a blind dude with more enthusiasm than skill, I’m your guy.
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