Ka-chunk! Thunk. Thunk. Ka-chunk! Thunk, thunk.
All around me, the sounds of men ice climbing: brawny
arms swing picks that land with a solid thwack deep in the frozen
waterfall, a crag of ice and rock that forms our practice wall. I
notice that these men seem to have limitless energy for their task,
hacking at the vertical face as if intending to chop themselves a
staircase. Like construction workers on a demolition unit, they send
down cascades of ice, dinner plates that shatter at the feet of their
belayers, who duck helmeted heads and feed out rope, inescapably
exposed. "Ice!" the climbers bellow, and swing again.
I am intimidated. I have only been climbing for a few
months, and am the sole woman in this winter workshop: an advanced ice
clinic at the Adirondack Mountainfest. I look at the sheer ice falls
and feel the muscles in my arms atrophy. I am not strong enough. I
will never be strong enough. I will make a fool of myself, and
everyone will be watching.
"Ready to climb? I'll belay you," says a
tall man in a red hat, towering over me. He moves to the nearest rope
and begins threading it through the device on his harness that will
anchor me while I climb.
I finish strapping cruel-fanged crampons to my boots,
grab my borrowed ice axes, and stand up. "Sure."
At the base of the climb, I peer up to select my
route. Before me is a cascade of frozen water. My eyes scan its
subtle undulations, seeking out depressions, pits, previous axe scars.
With a measured swing, I hook my tools overhead, then drive the front
points of my crampons into the ice a few inches off the ground. With
this, I have committed myself: I have made the transition from
horizontal earth to vertical precipice. Abruptly my fears melt. There
is only what must be done.
Now it is a matter of cunning and balance. I make my
way up the frozen seepage that hides the face of the cliff, aware of
each precise placement, hooking the notches left by previous climbers.
I can hear the instructor below me talking with my belayer. "Good
job," he calls. "Nice climb."
I reach the top. "You ready to lower?" is
what I say, but in the secret confines of my ribcage, my heart and
lungs rejoice. I can do this. Perhaps the only one who had any doubt
was me.
"You hardly knocked down anything," says my
belayer when I reach him. "Now that's finesse!"
I smile, warmed by his compliment, but unable to
accept it. "Aw, that's just trusting my tools," I say,
already eyeballing the difficult mixed rock and ice climb to my right.
The professional climber leading the workshop is making his way up,
and I observe how he moves his body, where he puts his tools. There is
hardly any ice on this route. He slides his axes into thin cracks and
tests his weight. At the top, he navigates an overhang. Someone asks
me a question, and I am distracted at the crucial moment. I miss
seeing how he maneuvers his body to move up and over this final rock
shelf.
Someone else is in line behind him, so I move to
another climb, biding my time. This time, the sensation is one of
pouring my weight ounce by ounce among all four points of contact --
foot, foot, hand, hand -- each one separate, yet inextricably
dependent on the others. The ice is less than an inch thick in spots,
and no single point will hold my weight on its own. My entire being is
focused on smooth transitions, moving one point at a time while
holding the others in perfect equilibrium. The slightest change in the
direction of force could cost me a precious and precarious hold.
The workshop, the acclaimed mountaineer who is our
instructor, the climbers hacking away beside me, the conversations
below me -- all of it dissolves as my consciousness takes on a
Zen-like quietude, a sense of being nowhere but where I am right now.
Echoes of doubt are dismissed without pause, like errant thoughts
eroding one's meditation. There's simply not room for them at this
instant.
At the top, I am almost reluctant to return to the
ground. This magic, this serenity, engulfs me. It will be lost as soon
as I give someone else my weight.
Compliments greet me, and I am pleased to be with such
a friendly group. After taking my turn at belaying, I move to the
mixed climb. The man above me swings his axe at thin ledges of ice,
longing for a solid "thunk." There isn't one to be had, and
instead he curses and examines the point of his tool for damage.
"Yes, I will try this," I think.
Again the sensation of extending my awareness outward
along the rock, my mind and body merged, nimble and ingenious.
The surface is different -- hard, unyielding -- but my technique is
the same: delicate, precise, seeking what's offered rather than
imposing my will. My tendency to trust my tools serves me well, and
before long I have surpassed the point reached by any other
climber but the pro.
There I stop, the overhang looming above me, and call
down, "I can't do that. I think I'm done."
My belayer nods and starts to increase the tension on
the rope in preparation to lower me. Standing next to him is the
instructor, who smiles. "You're not coming down until you fall
off!" he calls.
I pause a moment, taking in his words. Then I laugh.
He's right. "Well, how do I negotiate an overhang?"
My concentration has already turned toward discerning
my next hold when his answer reaches me. "I'll tell you when
you've done it."
Judy Wolf is a
freelance writer, world traveler, mountaineer, and white water kayak
instructor. She's taken numerous, extended solo journeys around the
globe, traveling by foot, bus, jeep, camel, truck, boat, train,
plane, elephant, and bicycle to over 30 countries on five
continents. She's currently working on a book of travel essays
about her most recent adventures.
Au Coeur de la
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