Bill Ryan
19th May 2013, 15:14
-------
North Twin: North Face
CHRIS JONES
Yesterday all was indecision. The north faces above the Columbia Icefields were plastered in ice. Could North Twin be any different? We had gambled on the beginning of August for our attempt, had traded our fear of a rival team for our knowledge of ice conditions. All July we anxiously awaited news from Canada. But now, when all seemed ready, we faltered. Should we give it a few days to clear? Should we go to Robson and come back later? Fear was countered by desire, caution by competition. No matter what alternatives we dreamed up, we could not avoid the basic issue. Were we ready for North Twin, or were we kidding ourselves? We packed our gear.
One foot up, pause, and then the other. It was much like any other uphill grind with a heavy pack. Yet there was a difference. In a few moments we would be at Woolley Shoulder, and I would have my first view of the fabled north face of North Twin. I became strangely detached. I saw George Lowe and myself as figures in the past. I saw our attempt as something that happened long ago. There was a clear sense that it had some meaning for a future generation, but what it was I could not say. More importantly, I knew this would be a very personal moment. I was intrigued to know my limits, wanted to push myself as never before. I had a feeling that North Twin might provide the answer. When I reached the Shoulder I ducked into the wind and glanced across at our face. I was impressed….
***
There was no alternative. I chipped away at the ice in the back of the crack, bridged up the groove, and repeated the performance. It was our fifth day on the wall. We had hoped to be up in three days, but the scale and the difficulties were unrelenting. We had equipment for a typical mixed climb, but the 2000ft. upper wall was of Dolomitic steepness and severity. One of our Bluet cartridges had been damaged in the haul bag, and without gas there would be no water to drink. The intricate route finding had necessitated retreats and pendulums, and together with the gear we had simply dropped or failed to remove, we were down to a dozen pitons and nuts.
George put in a lead and called for me to come up. When I arrived he pointed to a ramp that led around a corner. Was this the connection to the ice gully that led through the headwall? Excited and relieved I led upwards; the ramp gave out on a blank wall. I then tried to reach the headwall above me. The rock was poor and I could not get any satisfactory anchors. Thoroughly despondent, I asked George to take over the lead. He worked hard and unearthed a couple of nut placements, then started up the headwall. A knifeblade, a sky hook, a thin blade. Slowly he inched up. Now he needed a regular angle. The only one was the principal belay anchor; so I tied off the ropes, stood in a sling, and hammered at it. Suddenly the rope jerked upward. "God, he's off," I thought as I grabbed for the belay rope. In a flash I saw the last piton pull, saw the tremendous wrench on the remaining belay anchor. Then all was quiet. George bobbed up and down at the end of his rope.
I was tense. I insisted we have a rest, eat lunch, and talk over the situation. Four thousand feet up this wall was no place to start taking leader falls. But George was pissed off.
He wanted to get back on the rock right away. Not up the same crack, he was sure of that, but up a nearby depression. As he started up an even less promising line, it began to snow. He doggedly tried this line, but it was hopeless; another was equally bad. Finally he traversed leftward around the base of the headwall. After an age he returned through the falling snow. It was almost dark, but he had seen the ice gully which led through the headwall. It was 100ft. away from his high point and was vertical water ice. Maybe we could pendulum into it, then tie the ropes together and protect the lead by leapfrogging our three ice pitons. Even George could not hide the fact that this was a desperate proposal.
***
The bivouac was austere. We perched on ice crusted rocks with our feet thrust into our climbing sacks. After a cup of soup and a mouthful of cheese we settled into the bivouac sack. My mind raced. We were in a hell of a spot. We had almost no climbing gear. With our limited means the headwall appeared impossible. The ice gully seemed like madness. Retreat was out of the question; that option had been closed since the day before. The storm was now serious. Snow covered the rock. Tomorrow we would be overdue, and warden Hans Fuhrer would be concerned. But even if he flew in to look for us, what could he do to help? Did we really imagine that they could pull us off this wall? Besides, how long could we hold out?
George was also awake. He must have been going through the same gyrations. Finally we began to talk. He had come to the same conclusion the only way out was up. We both had been badly rattled; I, when the hoped for exit ramp turned to nothing, and George, when he unthinkingly attacked the headwall after his fall. We were near our limit. Well, if this were the real thing, I was damn glad I was with George. He was solid. I told him of my confidence, and he replied that he felt the same way. I might be lousy on 5.10, but he reckoned I had a high survival potential. As we discussed the options, confidence returned. Conversation died out and we fell asleep.
***
It was the seventh day. I headed into the bleak nothingness of a white out on the Columbia Icefields. Behind me, George kept us on a compass bearing. Yesterday we had lucked out. During a lull in the storm we had made an improbable lead into the ice gully. Fifteen leads of ice climbing in continual storm had brought us to the summit ridge at dusk. Now all we had to do was find the col that gave access to the valley. At mid afternoon we headed down a dip in the glacier. Just then we heard an unmistakable sound: a helicopter was circling in the valley below. They were looking for us! The noise grew faint and then went away. We crossed a shoulder and plunged into a snow basin; at last we could see where we were going. Suddenly the noise returned; the helicopter shot over the col. We rushed headlong down the slope, oblivious to the crevasses. The pilot spotted us and swung the machine over in our direction. "You guys OK?" came over the loud hailer. Apparently satisfied by our shouts and waves, the helicopter circled away. As abruptly as they had arrived they were gone.
The emotional impact was devastating. We realised that someone cared about us, that we were not alone. The last few days had been overwhelming. We had crossed the undefinable line. Now the tensions were released. As I walked toward the valley, tears ran down my face.
From ASCENT 1975-76.
Chris Jones and George Lowe were two of the finest climbers of their generation.
Their route has never been repeated.
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0ngwGOabGMw/TD9heL-iTMI/AAAAAAAAAo0/a22RiYe2GaY/s1600/P1000617.JPG
North Twin: North Face
CHRIS JONES
Yesterday all was indecision. The north faces above the Columbia Icefields were plastered in ice. Could North Twin be any different? We had gambled on the beginning of August for our attempt, had traded our fear of a rival team for our knowledge of ice conditions. All July we anxiously awaited news from Canada. But now, when all seemed ready, we faltered. Should we give it a few days to clear? Should we go to Robson and come back later? Fear was countered by desire, caution by competition. No matter what alternatives we dreamed up, we could not avoid the basic issue. Were we ready for North Twin, or were we kidding ourselves? We packed our gear.
One foot up, pause, and then the other. It was much like any other uphill grind with a heavy pack. Yet there was a difference. In a few moments we would be at Woolley Shoulder, and I would have my first view of the fabled north face of North Twin. I became strangely detached. I saw George Lowe and myself as figures in the past. I saw our attempt as something that happened long ago. There was a clear sense that it had some meaning for a future generation, but what it was I could not say. More importantly, I knew this would be a very personal moment. I was intrigued to know my limits, wanted to push myself as never before. I had a feeling that North Twin might provide the answer. When I reached the Shoulder I ducked into the wind and glanced across at our face. I was impressed….
***
There was no alternative. I chipped away at the ice in the back of the crack, bridged up the groove, and repeated the performance. It was our fifth day on the wall. We had hoped to be up in three days, but the scale and the difficulties were unrelenting. We had equipment for a typical mixed climb, but the 2000ft. upper wall was of Dolomitic steepness and severity. One of our Bluet cartridges had been damaged in the haul bag, and without gas there would be no water to drink. The intricate route finding had necessitated retreats and pendulums, and together with the gear we had simply dropped or failed to remove, we were down to a dozen pitons and nuts.
George put in a lead and called for me to come up. When I arrived he pointed to a ramp that led around a corner. Was this the connection to the ice gully that led through the headwall? Excited and relieved I led upwards; the ramp gave out on a blank wall. I then tried to reach the headwall above me. The rock was poor and I could not get any satisfactory anchors. Thoroughly despondent, I asked George to take over the lead. He worked hard and unearthed a couple of nut placements, then started up the headwall. A knifeblade, a sky hook, a thin blade. Slowly he inched up. Now he needed a regular angle. The only one was the principal belay anchor; so I tied off the ropes, stood in a sling, and hammered at it. Suddenly the rope jerked upward. "God, he's off," I thought as I grabbed for the belay rope. In a flash I saw the last piton pull, saw the tremendous wrench on the remaining belay anchor. Then all was quiet. George bobbed up and down at the end of his rope.
I was tense. I insisted we have a rest, eat lunch, and talk over the situation. Four thousand feet up this wall was no place to start taking leader falls. But George was pissed off.
He wanted to get back on the rock right away. Not up the same crack, he was sure of that, but up a nearby depression. As he started up an even less promising line, it began to snow. He doggedly tried this line, but it was hopeless; another was equally bad. Finally he traversed leftward around the base of the headwall. After an age he returned through the falling snow. It was almost dark, but he had seen the ice gully which led through the headwall. It was 100ft. away from his high point and was vertical water ice. Maybe we could pendulum into it, then tie the ropes together and protect the lead by leapfrogging our three ice pitons. Even George could not hide the fact that this was a desperate proposal.
***
The bivouac was austere. We perched on ice crusted rocks with our feet thrust into our climbing sacks. After a cup of soup and a mouthful of cheese we settled into the bivouac sack. My mind raced. We were in a hell of a spot. We had almost no climbing gear. With our limited means the headwall appeared impossible. The ice gully seemed like madness. Retreat was out of the question; that option had been closed since the day before. The storm was now serious. Snow covered the rock. Tomorrow we would be overdue, and warden Hans Fuhrer would be concerned. But even if he flew in to look for us, what could he do to help? Did we really imagine that they could pull us off this wall? Besides, how long could we hold out?
George was also awake. He must have been going through the same gyrations. Finally we began to talk. He had come to the same conclusion the only way out was up. We both had been badly rattled; I, when the hoped for exit ramp turned to nothing, and George, when he unthinkingly attacked the headwall after his fall. We were near our limit. Well, if this were the real thing, I was damn glad I was with George. He was solid. I told him of my confidence, and he replied that he felt the same way. I might be lousy on 5.10, but he reckoned I had a high survival potential. As we discussed the options, confidence returned. Conversation died out and we fell asleep.
***
It was the seventh day. I headed into the bleak nothingness of a white out on the Columbia Icefields. Behind me, George kept us on a compass bearing. Yesterday we had lucked out. During a lull in the storm we had made an improbable lead into the ice gully. Fifteen leads of ice climbing in continual storm had brought us to the summit ridge at dusk. Now all we had to do was find the col that gave access to the valley. At mid afternoon we headed down a dip in the glacier. Just then we heard an unmistakable sound: a helicopter was circling in the valley below. They were looking for us! The noise grew faint and then went away. We crossed a shoulder and plunged into a snow basin; at last we could see where we were going. Suddenly the noise returned; the helicopter shot over the col. We rushed headlong down the slope, oblivious to the crevasses. The pilot spotted us and swung the machine over in our direction. "You guys OK?" came over the loud hailer. Apparently satisfied by our shouts and waves, the helicopter circled away. As abruptly as they had arrived they were gone.
The emotional impact was devastating. We realised that someone cared about us, that we were not alone. The last few days had been overwhelming. We had crossed the undefinable line. Now the tensions were released. As I walked toward the valley, tears ran down my face.
From ASCENT 1975-76.
Chris Jones and George Lowe were two of the finest climbers of their generation.
Their route has never been repeated.
http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0ngwGOabGMw/TD9heL-iTMI/AAAAAAAAAo0/a22RiYe2GaY/s1600/P1000617.JPG