With fumbling frozen fingers, I tug hard on the second shaky cam. My lifeline. Placed precariously into a partially frozen deck of chossy granite cards behind, it rips violently from the mountain, casting a chunk of Alaskan granite into the swirling abyss beneath my feet. I suppose the one cam will have to do.
Peering out through the void to the gleaming glaciers almost a kilometre below, my view is obstructed by an usually formed hanging dagger of ice that has rendered the route considerably more technical this winter. It cleaves the vista with malice and mockery, taunting me. This is more than a simple block of frozen water. It’s a hurdle. A test. A commitment. After stepping out from this cramped, uncomfortable perch under the roof and onto the dagger, there is no turning back. This will be the most technical, most physical, most engaging movement on ice I will have ever done. And it’s hundreds of kilometres from civilisation, in -30°C, on a route yet to be completed this season.
Yet in this moment I am calm, not scared. I’m here as a result of years of organically acquired experience, knowledge, perseverance and mistakes. I have to believe in that journey. As sparkling spindrift dances up through the granite mountain runnel and stings my eyes, I stare out to the multitude of peaks across the glacier and catch myself in reflection.
How did I get here? Why am I here? Am I lost, or am I home?
I reach out and swing my tool with confident precision into the dagger. It thuds, accepting my challenge. On my outstretched right foot, my crampon scratches delicately at the thin chandeliers of ice, attempting to find purchase. I gather my focus, calm my breath, and swing out into the void.
am climbing (AI5, M5, V) and the journey for me to reach for this Alaskan classic spans multiple years, friendships and experiences. It’s a path that follows a
