Some Mountains Do Care
I originally intended to write a piece about what it’s like to write a guidebook–sort of an inside story on a work in progress. As the deadline looms, that makes about as much sense as asking a woman about the joys of childbirth while she’s in the middle of labor. So let’s talk about something else, please. Like the good old days. Not the really old days of hobnail boots and soft iron pitons, but the preCamalot/ preSpectra/preGor-tex kind of old days. The days of wool and hexes. One of the first lessons I learned in the Olde Days is that some mountains just don't like you. Here's how I found that out.
Symmetry Spire is a minor Teton peak that lies within full view of Jenny Lake. The climbs face south and are relatively short, compared to the big routes on the Grand and Mt. Owen. A great place to build alpine experience. But Symmetry Spire doesn’t like me.
Symmetry Spire (click)
Our schedule was tight; we both had to be at work the next day, but for some reason we decided to save a couple of miles walking by taking the boat across Jenny Lake. This meant that we didn’t leave the trailhead until 7:30. We wound our way up the approach gully, kicking steps up the snow to the base of the Durrance Ridge. Our late approach and methodical (slow) climbing put us two pitches below the summit ridge by early afternoon.
Which way up? The guidebook provided the usual amount of help, and the afternoon thunderstorm was bearing down. The guide did suggest the possibility of a traverse to the easier southwest ridge. Fifty feet left, then a crack beckoned above. My fear sent me forty feet up the crack with no protection as the Grand, Owen, and Storm Point all disappeared in blackness. At that point I felt the first raindrops strike my jacket and the rock. I watched with fascination as the supercooled water froze instantly on the rock. I was, as they say, in deep doo-doo. In less than a minute, I would be unable to move due to the instant verglas; not a single piece of gear interrupted the 80 feet of rope that led back to my belayer.
A small chickenhead at my waist had a small indentation behind it, so I hurredly stuck a runner over the knob and oozed down onto it. It held (obviously, since I’m writing this), and with heart in mouth I lowered back to the ledge. Ever rapped all night with a dim tiny flashlight in your mouth? The descent down the snow was the most dangerous part, with at least one sleepy self-arrest taking effect only feet from fatal drop into the moat. The next most dangerous part was the drive back to Coulter Bay in my VW Beetle. Then we went to work a few hours later.
Where are we? (click)
A year later I returned with college chum Steve to finish the climb. An earlier start got us to the base of the climb and I shot up the first pitch, which ended with a short layback to the belay ledge. Just as I stood up on the ledge I felt the rope go tight. “The rope’s stuck”, I yelled down, “I’ll rap down and free it”. Always Mr. Safety, I had borrowed a prussik from Steve. I set up the rappel, went down to the crack, and cleared the rope.
I rigged the prussik and self–belayed up to the layback. Partway through the layback I thought about resting for a minute before the final moves. “No”, I thought, “have some style and climb it out, you wimp.” So I went up the last few feet and lurched out of the layback and onto the ledge. As I reached the ledge I felt a snap. Looking back, I was horrified to see the prussik still wrapped around the rope but not attached to my harness; the supposedly foolproof double fisherman’s knot had mysteriously untied itself. I sagged down onto the ledge, clipped in, and trembled until Steve started yelling, "What's taking so long?!"
The rest of the climb past without incident until the summit, which we reached in a nasty snowstorm. The descent was a thousand feet of snow and at some point I’d ripped the seat out of my wool pants. This led to a massive cooldown of my nether regions during the thousand plus feet of glissades.
I decided to give Symmetry Spire one more chance a couple of years later. I had hooked up with a Brit who was too good to climb with me, but he couldn’t find anyone better. We went up to do the Southwest Ridge, a route that Tim didn’t even bother bringing his rock shoes for. A couple of pitches up I was comfortably sitting on a couch sized belay ledge as Tim flew up the pitch above. He surmounted a foot-wide overhang easily, stepped in the horizontal crack a foot above, and zipped up to the next belay.
I slung on the pack on my back, climbed up to the overhang, grabbed the horizontal crack, and pulled up. As I stepped in the horizontal crack my feet went out from under me and there was a roar of falling rock. The overhang, formed by a coffee-table sized block, had collapsed as I stood on top of it. The block exploded on the belay ledge that I has so recently been enjoying. Why did the block wait to cut loose until after both Tim and I had climbed over it? I shook my head and we finished the climb.
Browsing for coffins in Mexico (click)
So Symmetry Spire and I have an understanding–I don’t like it, and it doesn’t like me. Other Teton peaks have been far more gracious; the northwest side of the Grand has even allowed me to stay overnight a couple of times. But if the climbers on the Jenny Lake boat say that they are heading for Symmetry Spire, I smile and tell them “It’s all yours”.