Winter's Tale (TR)
Chiloe
the climb. It has languished since then in a folder along with
some other even older stories, all written for no one. A few
days ago I came across these while looking for something else,
and for the first time understood what they were: TRs.]
CANNON MOUNTAIN, WHITNEY-GILMAN RIDGE
February 28, 1981
Left a warm house in the dark for the cold, lonely drive north.
Met Gary Lee at 8:30 a.m. in Franconia Notch, under a weak
February sun. We were surprised to see the entire Cannon face
plastered with new snow. Even the Black Dike had melted
during warm weather the previous week, but now the face again
looked wintry. Powder avalanches swished peacefully off
overhangs as we watched.
Grinding up the approach, we took advantage of the trail broken
by a party just ahead, also bound for the Whitney-Gilman Ridge.
We arrived at the base just after they did, to find that it was
Bev and another woman, gearing up for the snowy first pitch.
Bev had trouble getting off the ground, and things looked worse
above that, so after fifteen minutes of watching Gary and I
dropped down left to try our luck with the direct start. The
direct was in the feeble sun, and though it was on steeper,
more technical rock, it also looked drier and better protected.
I started off, struggling up a jam crack in boots and a pack,
clearing ice from the holds with my hands. The climbing was
good, but it didn't yield quickly. I was breathless and
grateful when I finally scrambled onto the first belay. Bev,
coming up from the other side, was visible fifteen feet below
me, still working up the first pitch. She arrived at my stance
shortly before Gary did.
After a glance at the snow-filled chimney of the regular route,
Gary and I decided to continue on the direct. This meant a
clean and lively lieback into the sky to quit the ledge;
higher, I hesitated before pulling through some tricky face
moves. I complained: "It's fifth class up here." Ice on the
key handhold made it more so, but the protection was good
enough. Above that was a large snowy ledge. The wind blew
sharply there, and I was glad when Gary arrived so I could take
off and get moving again. We were both having problems with
cold hands; the sun had gone and the route was getting icier as
we gained elevation.
The third pitch began easily, but soon confronted me with a
tricky groove move onto icy holds just out of reach. Above the
groove, I jammed and liebacked onto a detached and ice-
feathered block. Looked just like Cerro Torre. Things were
definitely feeling Alpine as I stood at the next belay,
watching the clouds race over Franconia Ridge. Winter was in
the air; it had grown dark, and snowflakes drifted by. Gentle
spindrift slides floated down the big wall to our right; far
out and below, a party was retreating from the Ghost. Directly
below, I could see Bev going up and down at the hard face moves
on the second pitch, and realized that she was not going to
make it. That meant we would soon be alone on the wall. With
our single rope, we would have no choice but to push up and
over the top if we continued one more pitch. Time for doubts,
decisions.
When Gary came up it was only 11:45 -- no excuses there, we
were moving fast enough despite the conditions. In planning
for this climb, I had imagined dry rock and a sunny winter day;
the scale of our present undertaking was entirely unforeseen,
though it shouldn't have been. Below, Bev had disappeared. We
decided to press on. I set off into the crux, and was soon
gripped and complaining on the awkwardly overhanging, exposed
and icy rock. At least the protection was good. Finally I
took off my pack and left it for Gary, then committed to a thin
series of moves. I stepped up off-balance with rounded holds,
fingers going numb in the cold. After several long seconds on
the verge of falling, the crux was below me. I rested, warmed
my hands, and then tackled a second wall; this one ended on a
sloping, ice-covered ledge that was just too much to
contemplate. Throwing away our free ascent I grabbed a fixed
pin and stemmed wildly to pass the ice, then stumbled up to the
next belay. The snowflakes were coming more often now, and I
wanted to get off. Safety was up.
On the fifth pitch I decided, wrongly, that the regular way was
too icy, and tried a steeper and rotten traverse below it
instead. The climbing was spooky, though protection gradually
improved as I moved higher. Finally I reached a clean dihedral
and climbed gladly up it to a tiny, exposed belay on a flake at
the very edge of the ridge, legs dangling over the Black Dike.
(You're in the wrong place, my friend.) Gary came up slowly,
carrying both packs, and when he got to the belay the rope
became tangled and one of my anchors fell out. We danced
around in confusion. I replaced the nut in a better crack and
undertook some aggressive moves straight up the knife edge
ridge. Twenty feet higher I stopped at fixed pins, while Gary
sorted out the rope salad I'd left him with on the belay flake.
Then I worked slowly, carefully, on icy rock up and left. I
was wearing fingerless gloves continuously now, cleaning snow
from holds and cracks with my fingertips and fists, breaking
off ice with a carabiner when I could. The pitch was long,
with numerous short problems; it seemed to be taking forever.
Towards the top the angle eased and the snow and ice thickened.
I put runners on everything I could see, and tiptoed up the
final few feet to the welcome trees. As Gary came up, the
blizzard fell in earnest, reducing visibility to a matter of
yards. I was grateful we'd not climbed any slower, or been
caught lower down by the storm.
The descent was miserable. We could not find the trail, and
spent two hours post-holing deep snow, breakable crust, tree
caves and creeks, floundering up down and sideways to reach the
highway thoroughly exhausted and soaked to the skin at 4:30
p.m. We congratulated each other happily on our adventure. I
drove home that night with the radio loud, euphoric and wrapped
in the memories of other big climbs.
Mad Dog
>[The account below was typed 21 years ago, the day after we did
>the climb. It has languished since then in a folder along with
>some other even older stories, all written for no one. A few
>days ago I came across these while looking for something else,
>and for the first time understood what they were: TRs.]
Excellent. Some people think retro TRs are lame but I can relate to the
rediscovery of past experiences. Ever get in an argument about what happened or
when or with who? I tend to take notes because, although I have a pretty good
memory, it's easy to be confused if you've climbed much at all. So, first, good
job for writing it up back then and second, for posting it.
Jose Acosta
> CANNON MOUNTAIN, WHITNEY-GILMAN RIDGE
> February 28, 1981
>
Nice read. Thanks for the TR.
Jose