“ Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength
are nought without prudence, and that a momentary
negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime.
Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the
beginning think what may be the end.”
~ Edward Whymper,
Scrambles Amongst the Alps, 1871
Ice 101
Copper Falls
Initially, I viewed climbing ice as I did rock climbing at the local crag; a practice activity. Training for the real stuff. It was only later, when I actually did it, that I realized it was the real stuff.
Ice is distinct from rock in many ways. Over contemplation of the medium you’re engaging can be debilitating, although some is necessary, even mandatory for survival, but only objectively. When I say ice, I mean either water ice (WI), or alpine ice (AI). They can and do occur together, although WI is usually reserved for running water that freezes hard, and AI generally denotes snow that has seen many thaw/freeze cycles. There are a lot of variables and many distinct differences. The steepness, thickness and sustained nature of an icy couloir or a frozen waterfall provide stock for its rating, usually, a progressive numbered system that can be interpreted by others. Since “Rating an ice climb is difficult and sometimes nearly impossible.”, many ice climbers view grading systems as rarely objective and largely based on emotion.
The changing nature of frozen water cannot be overstated. Snow and ice are constantly metamorphosing; typically, a waterfall does not form and then remain in place until spring. It forms, or freezes, and melts out, partially or completely, many times throughout the winter, each example something unique.
For me, endeavoring to climb steep, hard ice was a serious, life-altering mental journey; rarely, if ever were my physical abilities an issue. No, it was in the attic where these battles were fought, at times with searing numbness as I wrestled with myself for control. I know I can do this, I’m telling myself I can do this, and now some voice is questioning if I can pull it. Very annoying. I’m pissed that the voice is either: 1. wrong, which is very annoying or, 2. right, and that’s also very annoying.
At this point, I begin to wonder just who it is I’m dealing with. Which is the real me? To whom shall I direct my attention? Which do I allow to make the important decisions? And what if I don’t listen to the right one? That could be very annoying as well. I could fall and violently injure myself or worse, my friends might laugh at me. This would be the most annoying.
For success, you must honestly and accurately evaluate each step and placement and do this well, for the entire length and time of the ascent and descent. A misunderstanding exists that it is by force one gains the top, and while climbing is physically demanding, it is usually a combination of delicate moves and precise placements, along with endurance, that has served me well.
Copper Falls is a good gush of water, cold and clean, fed by a mountain lake high above. It’s namesake creek flows and drops into a narrow defile, freefalling over several smaller steps until at the bottom, it plunges almost 200’ into a water-worn chasm. In the winter this translates into one of the best ice climbs in N. Idaho. The ice is often split vertically by the continuous flow of water, providing a constant backdrop of wet sound. Up the right side, the first pitch is roughly 100’ of WI 3 to the Patio, a small floor of ice protected from above by an overhang in the cliff; a wonderful belay spot. Weathered slings hang from old pitons and anchors buried in the rock. Most climbers rappel from here because the second pitch is certainly harder, more committing, and not always in shape.
The upper section of Copper Falls is solid WI 4, sometimes WI 5, and sometimes not so solid. I gear up, double checking the anchors, slings, ropes, knots, my harness, Dan’s harness, Ronny’s harness, etc; tie my boot… again. I take another deep breath and step out of the alcove to the thunderous applause of thousands of screaming fans. I’ve found this to be the only way I can climb ridiculously steep ice; by playing this fantasy. At least initially. By the time I’m 30 to 40 feet into it, I’m usually in full bore denial, humming some silly song aloud as I flirt with death. Ice climbing is nothing but death waiting to happen, thus the focused experience. I pull up over a large bulge, check behind a beautiful curving curtain of ice, and find a nice solid floor of glass to sink an ice screw into. With a carabiner, I clip my longest sling to the screw and, with another, clip the rope at my waist to the sling. I now have a dynamic, running belay. I’m roughly twenty-five feet above the Patio; The walls of rock are closing in, beginning to bottleneck, the noise of the water closer now. Above me, the ice curves up and out of view. When I get up higher, I can see the right side dead ends into a steep, blank cliff. The strip of ice on the left continues up and out of sight. I’ll have to cross the waterfall to the other side, a bold and committing proposition. I down climb a few feet while beginning to traverse left, probing for a way across.
The ice is solid enough and I steal out to the edge and peer into something I’ve never seen before. An absolute roaring torrent of water slashes by my face mere inches from me. Seventy feet above, the water comes over the final lip of rock and free falls inside a mostly unbroken tube of ice, smashes into the rock before me, then disappears down a large opening. I touch the water to feel its strength. The opening created by the falling water is dark and portentous. Occasionally a chunk of ice or rock will dislodge and go slamming down the chute with a deep, hollow, booming sound. I begin to hum louder now, with frequent thoughts of Mom. I reach, swing a pick, then another, my right arm and then side instantly soaked. With unexpected ease, I step across and cling awkwardly to the other side, suddenly astride a long, strange fin of ice. I ascend as far as I can stand before setting a second screw, and with the help of the boys now out of sight, rodeo the rope in-line with my position. I breathe a deserved sigh of relief.
I drape a sling over a small sapling and clip my lead line to it. I am almost eye level with the frozen surface of the pool above. So close. I am on a swath of thin ice literally no wider than my shoulders, a vertical wall of rock on my left. To my intimate right the flow of water gushes forth from an unrelenting dark place, frightening me. Because the ice is too thin for sound pick placements, I chip a couple small ledges to hook my tools and hands on. With a series of funky moves, I wheelie up over the top, the drag of the rope pulling the sapling out as I go past. I get some good anchors in some solid ice, and go back to the edge to watch the show. I am directly above the drop, and I can lean out and see all the way to the base.
I throw on a jacket and prepare to bring up my partners. First Ronny comes into view,his denial tinted with innocence (he was actually enjoying himself), and seconds the pitch in fine style. He is good natured and a tough little guy; once stitching up his own leg on Rainier from a crampon gash. When he reaches the top,he gives me a questioning glance concerning the loose pro on the rope and I mumble something about Mom.
Dan’s denial is robotic. Like Devo or the Talking Heads. Up he comes, steadily swinging and sticking his tools. His fantasy is barely interrupted by the introduction of a back-clipped ice screw, a simple encounter that is but a two minute mental hiccup; he has to momentarily attend to something else. The rhythm is resumed until, just below the lip, he swings his axe and a chunk of ice the size of a small refrigerator breaks off and goes slamming down the hole. This leaves him on a smaller strip of ice, a roiling, dark space of fantasy destroying scariness suddenly below the droop of the rope in between us. I see fear in his eyes as he sends for the top with renewed interest.
Dan pulls over the edge, beaming, and an instant spray session ensues. Presently, we begin to look around. We’re still deep down in this gorge, suspended above the creek on this frozen platform of ice. We explore up the creek around massive boulders, a wet and rather severe place; dangerous. We tiptoe around a corner or two until a way out left presents itself. It becomes the crux of the climb and I find myself leading up steep bulges of snowy, frozen rocky ground. I finally reach a stout tree and hug it, wrapping my arms around it as well as a long sling.
We finish to the ridge as the sun wanes. Short northern winter days. Temps are dropping as we stash gear and don an extra jacket or wool cap for the slow hike down… Why be in a hurry? We got all night.
1.28.95
note: Quote in the story from Ron Brunckhorst, Big Sky Ice.
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