Is there life after LA GORZDERETTE?

What happened to winter? Where did it go? Is there life after LA GORZDERETTE?!

Amid the red wet confines of the ewe's pelvis I hunt for life nose toes anything that denotes a lamb. Sensing my intrusion or even to yet expel her lamb ewe contracts against

upon my cupped I weather the crushing search on.

Gloved fingers detect an identifiable form lamb skull muzzle then a nascent twitch from an indeed still live lamb time to work fast. I rotate my hand to where hooves should be hoping for an optimal presentation no luck the lamb is legs back a common ungulate dystocia meaning the head is presented in the birth canal but the fore legs are positioned under the lamb's abdomen so the lamb is shoulder-locked in the birth canal.

The obstetrical solution is elegant yet counterintuitive, repel the lamb's head back into the uterus then reposition both forelimbs so the hooves are under the nose the way lambs are supposed to be delivered. I cup my broad hand over the lambs face shove lamb back into ewe's belly.

Now the tricky part slide rolled hand along lamb find left forelimb with right hand hook ankle with finger pull limb forward until hoof is found cup hoof in hand swivel about being sure hoof though soft from uterine fluid does not lacerate uterine wall and position under lamb muzzle repeat on left side (tricky) until lamb has chin resting atop forefeet like dog on kitchen floor.

Ewe struggles squeezes with renewed interest post-doc laying on ewe huffs-puffs Wyoming wind howls I insert left hand too beaucoup lube (sorry babe) secure front paws between index-middle-ring fingers cup back of head with left hand stretch ewe's vulva (no movement from lamb now, uh-oh...) exert steady pull lamb moves from depths of ewe into blaring Wyoming spring sun.

The lamb's dead. Limp like so much wet disaster draped in my steaming arms strands of fetal membranes slurping onto my sodden coveralls.

I towel away clearing lamb's muzzle so breath could be drawn lamb flops back a soggy plush toy as I palpate chest a heart beat bum-bum-bum-bum-bum...

Bloody gloved hand palms lamb head places lamb's muzzle into mouth I blow air lamb's chest puffs up like party balloon.

Lamb splutters coughs breaths lifts head moves a little herky-jerky life begins.

Photo: Rob Fullerton.

Rob shot this photo of me in my dry-tool den day before starting my new posting at the University of Wyoming in Laramie, WY. Me at the height of my post-winter-powers the Super Couloir Direct already a memory a man on the verge of a pretty-big-brand-spanking-new-life adventure.

Detendez-vous, ca va bien se passer...

Detendez-Vous Ca Va Bien Se Passer

La Gorzderette. Where to begin...

There are those trips where you go somewhere do a bunch of climbing n' drinking then come home. Then there are those trips that change your life irretrievably. I don't mean in a bad way just that things are going to look just a little different from now on.

For me going to France to participate in La Gorzderette was just such a trip. Ah, La Gorzderette how I wish you were a living breathing woman of flesh and blood skin and sinew that I could make love to and retire to a Chalet make Beaufort cheese by the wheel and have 13 children with.

But I digress. What is a La Gorzderette? How do you stalk this thing? And what's with the rabbits?

Once upon a time there was a town, nay a village, nestled within the firm engaging thighs of Le Vanoise which like most of the Alps is being adversely affected by climate change. Not to be deterred the village found solace in the machinations of Stephane Husson and Sam Beaugey who conceived of a tower of ice a fortress keep in white,

For climbing on...

France I have decided at least in the rural areas seems to retain a certain medieval quality. As pal Simon pointed out the distance between neighboring chalets in one hamlet was sufficient to permit two horse-drawn carts to pass one another. Thus the setting for a medieval tourney replete with loads of yeoman yeomanning about pushing hay-filled sledges (luge), skiing, slack-lining, tandem snowshoeing, coiling ropes whilst standing in ice-slush, orienteering, guide-obstacle-coursing. Oh, and ice-climbing.

I had hoped to duck the Tournai so I would be fresh for the l'exhibition Saturday but not to be, Stephane Husson tracks me down having recruited Sam Beaugey's lovely-yet-mountain-ready gal Geraldine. An accomplished alpine skier from Verbier Geraldine proves both agile and good natured the ideal partner for the multi-disciplined La Gorzderette. First we wander off in search of clues on an orienteering outing my college geology class saves the day as I recite for Emilie Delanney the theory of glaciation (in French no less). Next we ski an aerobic lung-buster that serves well to help provide me with conditioning for my later Alps adventure. I throw berets, ski some more then its off to the sledge push-race a muscle-power vent where l'ensemble has to guide a 250-year old hay luge around a course completing two laps, my experience with weight-training and grappling comes into play as I dig in to move the surprisingly heavy luge and keep it moving while Geraldine steers and hauls.

Notably next is tandem snowshoe left-right-left-right then the "le course de guide" that geraldine and I rope up for tip-toeing along frozen posts rails then my nemesis, the slack-line. We do okay before we climb, I choose a mixed-dry-tool route on the inside of one of the tripod legs largely because the overhand is crowded plus having a demonstration to do that evening in l'exhibition I need a route to perform on, preferably not on the overhang which I know the younger French climbers will likely monopolize in their usual no-shirt antics.

The route looks good I get half-way across the roof when my belayer pulls the rope tight the last clip being the finis so I will have to leave the last part of the route for the evening show under the lights.

So we are done, with la tournai anyway I grab some heavy-duty cuisine de haute savoie (sausages, pasta, bread, cheese, cafe' and a lemon tart) then its time to hang in the Chalet and wait for the evening show. Which is supposed to start at 6 but is in effect in full swing by 5. As expected the French guys are hiking the roof taking their shirts off so I suit up, make my way through the throngs of people step through the barrier onto the icy ground below la Tour...

All of France is watching...

Well not exactly but when you as the sole American show up in the heart of French alpine culture wearing psychedelic snow trousers a hand-painted top and a sea-creature mustache people notice I collect my belayer and make for the inside of the leg. Tie-in drop coat the purple Nano comes to life as I nail pockets jump for the frozen plastic holds switch back to the flanking ice skirts pull for all I am worth a red spotlight hits me I hear Sam Beaugey invoke my name through thumping French techno my perfect moment even if nobody is watching me above me Monica Dalmasso hangs from the Tyrolean cable her flawless eye sure hand captures my journey nay my transfiguration to walrus-sine event mascot.

Then its over everybody splits as I take in one last route they are giving the rabbits away to the event winners let the party begin.

But there is one more ordeal to undertake, "The Best Climber in the World" contest for which I am enrolled. No rest for the supremely wicked anyway there's the plane flight in two weeks to sleep on...

A sadistic congenial romp through the surreal first up is a pull-up contest on my F2s in which I crank as many as I can en-route to munching a snickers bar tied to a string being seductively lowered before the inductee. I manage twelve before I nail the bar biting it clean in half. Next I have to stand in a wash-tub filled with slush whilst coiling a frozen rope having seen the French lads hurry through this I lay it on absentmindedly coiling some rope while prolonging the burn as long as possible, "WE love you Rob!" shout several French" girls while I ham it up. Their is the table crawl, the weighted slack-line, shirtless haul-bag haul (more posing), the bottle crawl then I'm all-in...

I miss some of the French when Sam announces me as the best climber in the world, there is girl winner too a chocolate medal which I hang around her neck followed by the much-appreciated cheek-kissing.

Time to party!

Photos: Clockwise from top- La Gorzderette is very much about spectacle, think medieval pageant. Lower- Champagny en Vanoise: The world's coolest ski town. Lower left- No fear, the natives are very friendly. Geraldine, 1/2 le ensemble de tournai. 1 & 2: Monica Dalmasso. 3: RCC Collection.

Le Dernier Combat- Super Couloir solo

Some climbs stay with you. Through the years they linger always there just above or below the conscious. I had first been up to the Super Couloir on the Mont Blanc du Tacul in 1988 with Mark Bebie, we had done the Eperon Croz and Le Ginat on Les Droites so the Super Couloir seemed a sure thing. There was ice all the way down the first section but water was running beneath. We waited for the cold but Mark was no longer there, he was dreaming of a woman who didn't really care for him anyway, we bailed...

Mark later did the route with another guy from Seattle but they avoided the direct start going up the Gervasutti. That guy died on Mt. Hunter in Alaska, mark was killed on Slipstream a year to the day after I had gone solo up this one, two other guys from Seattle died with him.

I went back up in 1989, then in 2005, in 2008 I wanted to go but my partner was "sick", France was a long way from Colorado...

Suddenly I was back in France at La Gorzderette I climbed on the incredible ice tower there every day. Damien Souvy graciously took me down the Bellecorte north face so I could practice my skiing, the weather was perfect so I made my plan, drive to Chamonix early, catch the first telepherique up ski to the Super Couloir solo up to the end of the ice rappel down ski down to the Montenvers all in one day.

I had food poisoning early in the week now a cold. Still, this was it, there would be no other chance, I could sleep on the plane. I put my climbing boots, crampons, harness, helmet, two quick draws, my F2s and gloves in my pack, water, some biscuits. There was no new snow in the Mont Blanc Massif. I skied the boiler-plate neve down below the MBdT then skinned up for a look...

The route Jeff Lowe called "the most compelling high-mountain ice route I have ever seen" looked dry only rock shone on the steep initial section. Not only that but there was a party on the climb moving slowly up the initial mixed section, plenty of ice on the nearby Lafaille which would still be a good send...

But I had not come across time and the Atlantic ocean for this, it was to be the Super Couloir. This was my day in all the cosmos, I had been crowned "Best Climber in the World" at La Gorzderette, after all, what harm was there in having a look?

Changing into my climbing boots I dropped my ski boot it rolled 200 meters down the slope came to rest against a block of ice. No matter, it would be there when I got down. I started up the climbing steep but good ice in the cracks the climbing got steeper but the hooks were solid in the cracks anyway there were fixed pins everywhere I could always rappel if I got stuck.

The climbing is magnificent, there is always a solid hook when I need it. The F2s feel totally secure although it takes a while for my hands to warm up even though I am climbing in full sunlight. There are some small rests but mostly I keep going my eye is on a mass of ice blocking the exit into the upper couloir. The one bad part comes when I bash my shin on a fixed pin, I feel dizzy and sick for a moment but suppress this feeling, if I black-out it is a long ride down the Valle Blanche...

Although a clear day drafts of spindrift pour down now and again filling my collar making for some cold moments, this sets the tone for the day which is move or freeze. My hands thaw right before the ice-exit where two fixed pitons would protect the crux if I had a rope. To these I clip the quick-draws and my tool tethers now if I slip at least maybe I won't crater. I get a good hook in a crack up left then make a big reach over the ice lip for a decent stick but as I pull over an incessant stream of snow pours over the top blinding me, ah, to suffer with such purity...

I don't have to go home but I can't stay here so I power over landing big shots feet in space just like the surplomb at the Tower only here there is no "take!" so I un-clip the last quick-draw and pull over. When I try to stand up though the tether has wrapped around the ice, I'm stuck... I can neither go down, un-clip nor straighten up, choice words in the air and always the snow blasting down my collar.

Finally I manage to reach down disengage the tether but I'm frozen and dazed, too much fun really...

There is ice ahead, then more and more ice, hard, gray unmarked ice save where the French guys have scratched their way up. But I need big sticks to be safe so I blast away big shots with the F2s picks and points now dull from the dry-tool and the file in the car to save weight. My calves protest but then there are my arms to take over all those laps on my home cave pull-ups on the power-board now they don't seem so excessive you can never be too strong only strong enough. Above me at the top of a steep bit the French guys stop then down they come rappelling my way, "Are you going up there?" they gesture. "Yup, I am..." This ends now I tell myself no more pining for the Super Couloir I am NEVER COMING BACK HERE EVER!!!

So as they shrug and slide off down the couloir I steel myself for the final passage, eat some chocolate fix my boots drink some icy water then staying on the left where I can scrum against the rock I throw my hat over the wall and follow it.

On any other day this wouldn't be too bad maybe 5-/5 but now I'm frozen my legs are wasted and my left shoulder is starting to give out. To compensate I tap the left tool with the right to set the pick when all of a sudden the left tool plates out so I'm standing on my rock-smashed front-points 600 meters off the deck with no placement...

Big whoopsie-doodle there so I swing frantically both hands at once like a monkey hoeing lettuce equilibrium restored I toil on until at last I see the rappel station the couloir levels out into a rock-strewn alley I clip the slings and dig into my pack for the 7mm rappel line.

Which promptly tangles like the proverbial love affair, not just then but on every single mother-loving rappel. Plus the 80 meter length is too short to hit most of the stations so there is more profaning plus sketchy down-climbing as I ferret out anchors past and present some so bleached as to defy all trust. But the cold prods me along its go down or freeze to death so I slither down my tiny boot-lace of a rope comforted by the fact that I've lost so much weight in the preceding week shitting my guts out that the heaviest thing about me is my new gold crown.

At the top of the mixed bit the light is starting to go I drop over the edge marvel at the angle of the climbing those Frenchies really have something with that artificial ice tower I must say 'cause without it I never would have got up this thing. In the alpenglow I come to a lonely ledge one ice-encrusted lost-arrow peg sprouts from a crack, I slip one of my four lucky carabiners through the eye clip my twine in mutter "inshallah" and drop in. Thirty seconds later I'm in the snow with a whoop I crab down to my skis gather up my kit and make for the errant ski boot. It's still there albeit filled with snow but I stuff my foot in anyway clip on my skis and begin the world's record side-slip.

Now on a nice day with a fresh load of powder the vallee blanche is one of the great off-piste runs today though with no snow in the last 5 weeks and night coming on it's an icy horror-show. Not only that but to save weight I've left my head-lamp behind in the car I ski by feel mostly keeping an eye out for the yawning crevasses none of which is aided by the fact that my left foot is utterly frozen and insensible.

No matter, the Refuge du Requin has to be here somewhere at least it was 22 years ago when I last came this way. Amid the gloaming the path becomes narrower more steep hemmed in by evil-looking slots when there below the Dent du Requin I make out two yellow spots of light the windows of the refuge...

I opt for the direct traverse which fortuitously leads me right there. Richard the cook is on the deck having a smoke when I stumble onto the icy wood and promptly eat shit going down in a heap, "bonjour" I gargle as I struggle to my feet. Inside it is warm, lit, Burning Sear is playing and the several beautiful young French women who serve as guardians eye the strange creature that has unexpectedly washed up upon their shore from out of the night.

Beer, food, water, wine, follow as I hang my sodden gear give thanks to whatever gods are listening that I am not out on the glacier somewhere slowly converting into a lump of malodorous frozen meat dressed in clashing outfit. I would have slept but every two hours a muscle spasms wakes me in agony, then there are the pee breaks as I have made every effort to rehydrate prior to bed.

Come morning I don't feel too bad although when I peruse my descent route from the night before it is only too clear I have absolutely cheated the hangman. For I divined the only navigable route through a maze of holes turning off at just the right moment going further would have meant a descent into a dead-end maw of jumbled slots. I down a few coffees kiss a few women thank everybody profusely and boogie off down the increasingly stony glacier.

After a long clank up the iron stairs I try and board the train, a recalcitrant Frenchman tries to deny me passage based upon the fact that my ticket was for yesterday. I probably look like I just sacked Rome yesterday, he eyes my jagged ice-tools, shrugs and motions me forward.

On the train down I put my pack on the seat my ski boots up on my pack watch the Grandes Jorasses north face emerge from behind a ridge, the Colton-Macintyre sure looks in...

Photos: Upper- The Super Couloir on the morning of battle, a fairly dry-looking direct start. Lower- The view down the initial mixed section from fairly high on pitch 2. The black spec in the snow is the errant ski boot. Bottom le Refuge Requin, nice... All photos: RCC.