We woke soon after dawn to the soft din of an alpine stream spilling down through the forest. It was summit day. In the tight confines of the tent, I wriggled into my shorts and fleece as Terry stirred in her sleeping bag next to me. When she sat up, we kissed good morning.
Outside, early morning sunshine glinted through the trees; a bold blue slab of sky overhead. I got the stove going right away: hot water for coffee and oatmeal. A deer wandered into the clearing, not fifty feet away. It grazed on the meadow grass, apparently not perturbed by my presence. Before long, Terry joined me at our makeshift galley, using the bear canister as a stool. While we sat and waited for the water to boil, I leaned over to my backpack and retrieved the envelope that I had packed in for the occasion. I handed it to her with a sanguine “Happy anniversary.” After all, it was the 14th of August, our one-year wedding anniversary. She opened it and read the card. Then she got up and stepped over to her backpack, fishing around for something. Upon returning, she handed me an envelope and said “Happy anniversary to you, too.”
We had hiked into Lake Ediza the day prior, making camp in the trees above the lake. It was to be a short trip: hike in on Thursday; climb the North Face of Mt. Ritter the next day; hike out and drive home on Saturday. I had climbed this route once before, eighteen years ago. No rope or technical gear was necessary. It was third-class climbing all the way, some of the best in the Sierra range. But to get to the start of it, one had to ascend a steep snow chute to the Banner-Ritter Col—and that required an ice axe.It was the axe that caused Terry some concern. She’d never so much as held one before. I assured her that it was no big deal. I had climbed this col three times before—once to scale Ritter and twice more for Banner Peak—and I didn’t recall any tremendous difficulties. Why, a little ice axe training on the snowfield below the col, and she’d be good to go.
After breakfast we started out, ascending along a cascading brook adorned with summer blooms. We were soon above timberline, where under the giant buttresses of Banner and Ritter, we tramped across sunny meadows and glacier-polished stone, hopping boulder to boulder. In due time, we reached the lower snowfield. It was just soft enough for our boots to gain traction, a good sign indeed. And Terry was getting right into groove of the glacier travel thing.
Progress, however, slowed on the upper snowfield. It was steeper and icier than the lower one. For the first time that day, I thought to myself: “Should’ve brought crampons.” We stopped for a quick lunch on a tongue of jagged boulders. It was already noon. My goal of summiting by two o’clock was diminishing fast. Back at it, we trudged carefully up frozen sun cups until the pitch was steep enough to warrant some ice axe training.I first went over the parts of the axe: the pick; adze; spike. It’s a very useful tool on icy slopes, I explained. And it’s also a lethal weapon. I told her the story of Leon Trotsky, one the founders of the Soviet Union’s Communist Party, second only to Vladimir Lenin. He was deported to Mexico when he fell out of favor with Joseph Stalin. Then on August 20th, 1940—sixty-nine years ago almost to the day of our wedding anniversary—a Russian assassin killed him with an ice axe. One blow to the head.
After covering the basics on how to handle an axe, I demonstrated how to perform an arrest. I slid down the slope on my side; rolled onto my stomach; bore down on the axe, driving the pick into the snow; came quickly to a stop. Nothing to it. Terry practiced it a few times. When I felt she had the hang of it, we continued up.
Soon the snow was in the shade and much firmer. Every step had to be taken with care to keep from slipping. I kick-stepped my way up, the toe of my boot penetrating the snow a few inches. I had assured her that it wouldn’t get any steeper. But it did. The last 200 feet to the Banner-Ritter Col ascended a narrow chute that was more demanding than I remembered. Now I had to resort to chopping steps in grainy ice, chipping out toe-holds the size of a credit card. Or smaller. Terry followed me, becoming more nervous by the minute. She wanted me to stay close at hand, but I preferred to keep well above her, giving myself ample room to execute an ice axe arrest if I fell. The last thing I wanted to do was slide down and knock her off her feet.
What a relief, to gain the top of the col: back in the warm sunshine; incredible views down both sides of the saddle. I thought Terry would feel the same. But she didn’t. Instead, she was furious. No volcanic explosion per se, but behind those dark sunglasses I detected smoldering emotions as she quietly expounded her feelings: she was not at all happy; this was not fun; it was f#ing scary; I had understated the difficulty of the climb; I had sandbagged it; what was I thinking?...At first I considered making light of it. After all, she had climbed that snow chute impeccably, and if I could get her to see the worth in that, she would laugh it off. On the other hand, as she was reading me the riot act, I took note in the way she was holding her ice axe firmly in both hands, and flashed upon the fact that it WAS a lethal weapon. So I kept my trap shut. By and large, laughing at your mistakes or predicaments can lengthen your life. But in this case, I felt it would shorten it.
It was now three o’clock and the North Face of Ritter stood before us. I pointed the route out, but she was still rattled and in no mood for climbing it—especially when it entailed kick-stepping up more snow. So I suggested we do Banner instead: it was easier than Ritter, and there would be no snow. But she didn’t believe me.
This wasn’t exactly how I had planned to spend our one-year anniversary. I apologized profusely, but I don’t think it helped much. With the summit bid dashed, we returned to the top of the snow chute for the descent. I endeavored to assure Terry that, when viewed from the top, a slope always looks steeper than it really is. She wasn’t buying it. I went first, demonstrating an ice axe arrest by sliding down fifty feet before braking to a stop. She followed and did fine. But it was clear that she was gripped and feeling out of her comfort zone. Way out. By then, I was feeling extremely guilty and rotten, knowing that she was possibly terrified…. and angry, and for all I knew, still wanting to kill me when we got off the snowfields. How could I enjoy myself?
We down-climbed the rest of the way without mishap, then stowed the axes. Terry was glad to be off the chute. I was glad that she had put her ice axe away. As we descended into the cirque below, the heavy mood lifted. We talked as we traveled across the high meadows, admiring the wildflowers and the spectacular view of the Minarets. By the time we reached camp, we were discussing what to make for dinner.Though we were unsuccessful in bagging Ritter or Banner, we did spend three gloriously sunny days in the High Sierra. And after being tied down most of the summer with the house remodel project, a little time off in the mountains was a treat. Besides, Ritter will still be there next year (though I suspect we won’t be climbing it on our anniversary).
Back at the ranch, I was still perplexed as to why the snow chute below the Banner-Ritter Col had been more difficult than I remembered. I hadn’t meant to sandbag it when I told Terry beforehand that it was a cake walk. Yeah, it was years ago, but I honestly recalled just trucking up it, no problem. As a nut check, I rummaged through my old photo boxes and found the pics from the 1991 Ritter trip. Yep, there we were: kick-stepping up the snow chute—with crampons on.
Oh well. Next time.
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MORE PHOTOS
The entire photo set of this trip can be viewed here…
http://www.flickr.com/photos/91696789@N00/sets/72157622189107838/
