I sought to wear the competition jersey at Ouray if only for one last time. So I packed the Mini with all my kit plus Scout drove west by southwest through a Colorado largely barren of snow the ravages of climate change to painful too even look at. Arriving mid-afternoon we rolled out crammed our sacs with draws and rope staggered down into the floor of the Box Canyon set upon Seamstress a heavily machined dry-tool route that this year had an intriguing slip of ice along its right edge. Suiting up we entered into a discussion with some Bozeman folks intent on snatching the line for their top-roping, yes I was going to lead up, no that was not Tic-Tac...
I had come to climb, to train, to prepare for one last turn in the lists, that hastilude that is the Elite Mixed Climbing Competition so with a combination of ice climbing dry-tooling and rock-climbing I made the ice seam where I could do what I do best which is make good use of a small volume of ice. On-sight complete Scout headed up hugging the dangler until he was established, sends in hand we retired to our room, pints were opened, fists bumped, mind racing I slept not a wink.
The following day we went to look at Bridalvail Falls near Telluride, a most fearsome line in early season, blue and vertiginous. I had guided Susanne up this in April 1994 but today was not the day. The Fang presumptive Grade 5 offered more opportune sport, it looked like a toy ice climb from the road, how hard could it be? After an hour plus breaking trail we stood below it "five maybe six screws" quipped Scout, I was certain I could solo this runt in about eight minutes but I tied in anyway. A good half-hour later pumped giddy I had matched hands above screw number seven was un-shouldering a tool to go up right when my F2 rode up out of the placement and GEROMINOOOOOOooooo.... I was airborne for a good thirty-footer onto a 13cm screw our Sterling Nano went ballistic and I came to rest a few feet out from the ice utterly unscathed. I scampered back up placed two more screws then lowered off a sling around two twigs (yikes!).
Scout went up next looked solid but flamed out after pulling the crux, even still he drove yet two more screws above where I had fallen then furrowed through the bush (because that's what Scouts do) above to place a sling around a fir tree. Red-Point time. Racking our last remaining screw and draw, with all the clips in place and nice holes from before the climbing still had me gargling, I placed the last screw before the bush for a total of twelve plus the twig runner, just another Grade 5 featuring 35 meters of vertical ice...
Just the same pints were had fists bumped food was eaten I even slept a little...
The following day the Gods drop trouser took aim and shat squarely on Rob's head, no personal insult intended just an immense cosmic defecation on me, my car and my vacation. Still, steaks were grilled and generous pints were guzzled at the Ourayle House Hutch made a fine host plans were made and that's as much detail as need be revealed.
Thursday we set our bleary-eyed sights on Mighty Aphrodite a bolted line I had attempted to on-sight as a demo in 2010 (post-Petzl party, bad idea). After a warm-up lap of fishin' n' yardin' on draws I set off moving like my younger self the bigger the moves the better to get the son-of-a-bitch over. I top out through sunlit ice red-point in hand it has been a long dark autumn with little time to climb, finally I feel like I might belong in the event.
Friday my left arm and shoulder has locked itself in the closet won't come out so Scout sends handily a dandy M7 while I belay so after the obligatory spaghetti dinner there's nothing for it but to go to bed early for Saturday is Competition Day, day of days.
I rise early shower dress don the jersey warm up by sending Scout's route from the day before. I had pulled #4 jersey first out of the bag the evening before so it is my destiny to go late in the day before the full crowd, if this is to be my last performance I wish it only to be well attended. Waiting to rappel into the canyon I learn the route has already been sent, the thing already decided, so there is no pressure, after some kerfuffle over whether Ipods are permitted I get the okay to play my tracks, things are looking up...
I suit up under Sam's supervision then drop into the Canyon where in the stillness and cold I await my turn, then I tie in...
ONE TWO THREE GO!
Super slippery climbing but the hooks are impeccable from the sky above come the strains of Cyaan Stop CANT STOP, CAN'T STOP I AND I...
Wicked dub-step gets me going the crowd starts to groove after all that crappy white-boy drivel they've been subjected to all morning. I'm making clips gyrating my hips women are swooning the Taliban are in full flight when all the sudden some killjoy pipes up:
"Dude! You're out of bounds!"
SO!?!WHATSITTOYA?!
I scan my situation and notice maybe two points on my right plate in contact with some red spray paint, hells bells dog! I move left but then they start harping on about how I have only twenty seconds to get to "the loaf" so I pull for it sink my F2 hear the announcer assert I've made "the loaf" (phew!) but the line judge (killjoy that he is) thinks otherwise they start yanking on the rope telling me I have to come down...
Which I do, whooping it up, I raise an F2 salute the crowd who cheer mightily, its all about the fans, you see...
The belayers have an eye on me, "where YOU going," one inquires edgily. "Just chillin' out a bit", I sniff a little, feign professional devastation, they nod knowingly, poor guy he must be hurting...
Attentions turn to Whit as he heads up the comp' route so with a squeal of glee I scarper off tools in hand downstream lash my coat around my waist thus frothing slightly at the mouth attack the nearest grade 5 ice line I encounter as No Doubt by Turbulence comes howling out of the speakers (they plum left my play-list on!)
There is no doubt
I smoke the herb
to concentrate
all the evil evaporates, yeah...
I got my F2s loaded for bear landing big shots stabbing my Ice Dragons in slaying it all picking my way up through big globs of blue-white ice a 4-legged neon paint splash insouciant being happy just to bang a little longer on the stage that is Ouray Ice Festival. Near the top the ice gets weird I slow a bit when one of the Ice Park employees appears off to my left imploring me to take a rope, ever the sportsman I oblige, top out, turn towards the bridge, that's when I realize that several hundred people have been watching me...
I would like to say I am sorry for stealing the attention due anyone else truthfully but having stolen the show somewhat if even inadvertently I am patently unrepentant. Amid the blur of blue and red paint sweet loafs pinched loafs disqualified contenders pulsating athlete egos I sought and at last found my moment of pure climbing bliss, one man, one errant mustache, one very loud pair of trousers, the omnipresent two inches of chome-moly steel betwixt me and perdition, the unblinking crowd...
The following morning on my way out of town a beautiful hippie girl hucked her arms around my neck gave me a big squeeze told me I had done most awesome.
Who would argue with that?
Postscript: On Sunday 15 January Colorado ice-climbing icon Jack Roberts was attempting to lead the second pitch of Bridalveil Falls when he fell sustaining fatal injuries in the ensuing 60 foot whipper, though I had not spoken to him at the Festival I recall seeing him through the crowd, a fleeting glance before being distracted. I would like to think that my assessment of Bridalveil a little over a week earlier as being in too grim a state for climbing had kept a similar fate from befalling either myself or Scout, the truth is I adhere to a hard and fast rule, never to repeat major ascents I have completed, running the gauntlet once being in my mind perhaps once too many.
Truly though it is a shame to see the older climbers, Guy Lacelle, Charlie Fowler, John Bachar, Craig Luebben and now JR being picked off over the years, a wealth of experience and lore goes with them but perhaps more poignantly having rounded 50 I now find myself in this clade, with each passing I see the queue before oblivion grow shorter.
Time to quit? To what end? Bad luck or just bad conditions? Such thoughts weigh inescapably on my psyche...
"I want more time, fucker..."
-Roy Batty- from Bladerunner.
THE LAST WORD: I don't mean to beat a dead horse here but in retrospect it is apparent that I got higher on the competition route than a number of the other climbers who in fact fell off well before they got to the "sweet-loaf" feature, several guys I know for a fact came off on the thin ice hooks leading to the blue structure whereas I actually stuck the thing before timing out. This is okay as I was in fact OUT OF BOUNDS at one point, the judges warned me about this I thought I had moved my foot off the red-painted ice but if I did so I did not do so soon enough for their liking they are the judges in this matter and that is that.
I have always viewed climbing in competitions as an exceedingly useful tool to improve my climbing performance, going up against top-level climbers from here and abroad is a sure way to elevate one's game. The flip side is I do a good deal of solo climbing (witness my exit from the canyon immediately following my comp' run), I'm older and exceedingly cautious about progression fearful of injury that could permanently alter my climbing career, not to mention I make my living as a large-animal veterinarian and need to be physically sound to work with ornery (and big) critters. I move with confidence but am slow at times, warming up gradually careful to avoid a ground-fall, for me to disconnect from the solo mind-set on command is not always so easy, perhaps not the best attribute for being in a timed competitive event but one that has kept me alive and mostly well through an ice-climbing career that has spanned over thirty years.
But I'm stoked! I climbed pretty well in this event met some cool people and had a really good time with Scout.
Photo: Helen H. Richardson/Denver Post.
