despite the one cool climb, the Brynteson trip the weekend before was a big failure— my original intention had been to reach a climbing destination directly across the Snake Valley at Twin Mountain, but chickened out of crossing the river willows on snow-machine— the Brynteson chutes and aretes i narrated were a consolation prize, my fourth time up there, they are fun cliffs in winter mon, drive all the way to north side of hill before dismounting and ascending.
(right) N. Twin Mountain cliffs at sunset,Snake River Valley, showing big chunks of avalanche set off by Graham on January 17
We started up the snow-covered turf ramp left of center, left of the orange-lichen wall- there was an awkward move around a willow lump- Chris and I rappelled from a snow-filled alcove above- it was chill factor 55 below, and we didn't have our act together- Chris's ATC burned a frozen brand into his belly....
(normally i would consider it a degredation to spew such spray, such shameless i-Beta, but the Snake River Valley is already well degraded IMHO, so what does it matter?)
next weekend on the 17th of January, i returned with a secret weapon: an actual, human, climbing partner, the indefatigable Chris Miller, primed and ready, mounted on top of a big yellow Ski-Doo, with his poor feet jammed into Phil Hofstetter's too-small snappy red Koflach climbing boots. off we roared, me on the new smooth-riding .570 Bearcat.
the cold: the fabulous cold. did i mention yet it was cold? well, it was. it was cold. allapa. allaparunga. Clem, Clem! i am cold. these boots, they don't work! the wind was blowing 20 over the ridgetops, with an ambient well below zero, twenty, twenty-five below that day, with the wind at twenty mph, Art Davidson baby. much too cold for technical climbing with ropes, but we were choosing to do it anyway.
Twin Mountain cliffs came up fast this time when Chris gunned the hog across Snake River, with a minimum of willow-shredding. foolishly, we had not donned harnesses before the ride and froze our fingers doing so. as i started up the icy snow slope towards the cliff, last week's avalanche was far from my mind, when
click!
i should have been expecting it. the slope cracked neatly and ran exactly a centimeter and stopped. it was nothing, slope angle wasn't maybe over 31°, but i was gasping anyway, having a very heart attack, stricken, white, panic-attacking; Chris, saw Ian acting weird further up the slope and thought nothing of it, dude's always acting that way-
but that click, that mechanical click, all the heinous snow slopes all those years we've crouched on with our ears to the surface waiting for that very clicking sound, all the friends we've lost, Tom, Johnny, Alex, Randy, Nemo, how is anyone supposed to know? the accrued resonance of fear built up over years in Alaska had me cursing and sputtering most vilely
(left) quartzite is metamorphosed sandstone: this kind in Snake River is pure choss. but in winter, it meshes with its bryophytic symbiotes, freezes solid, and you get good Cobra thunks, just like real ice! the living climbing wall...as we were getting into lead-climbing mode on the quartzite cliff, lo and behold, along came Earp on a borrowed snow-machine! and now here she was coming up the slope! now, here is an individual who can fully appreciate irrational fear of a snow slope!, for i had seen Joni's picture of the big one she had ridden at Turnagain Pass—
sure enough, when she reached a point, right where the slope gradient kicks back to exactly 35°—
whompf!
she had my same reaction, stricken, white, gasping.
(right) choss- i came back the following weekend by myself and soloed a bunch of stuff- i gave each route i did a very serious name, and various ratings in several different languages, but i forgot it all...
as i'm banging in pins like fury on ground where on another day i have soloed, lo and behold, from down below came a roaring over the wind: Jeff and Graham a-straddle their dreadful SkiDoos, stalking our cliff. they were off their machines and up to the cliff in seconds. i tried to hear what they were saying but i was hanging onto the tips of willows and snow-kneeing over a rather troublesome little drop-off (with some good protection from a Bugaboo, i might add)
i was too far away to hear the click , but i heard the
BOOM!!
Graham, the tiger, had sunk his claws into a fairly huge 38° raft and set if off, maybe 30' x 90' x 16". large blocks of snow slipped and slithered down the slope before coming to rest in a hissing pile-up of fragments. i couldn't see from my perch, but apparently Earp had to do the RFYL!
one by one, we bugged out. Chris and I made it out last and epicked in the darkness on our machines. we emerged from the whole ordeal NOT unscathed... we ended the day sitting in hot baths discussing our frostbite over the phone.
