The Ledge (21 page)

Though I haven’t solved the mystery of my bloody throat, I no longer care. To prove this, I gurgle up more fluid and spit angrily through pursed lips. Dark droplets spray the ice wall.

I keep conjuring an image of myself dangling frozen on a climbing rope. It’s all too awful, and I feel overwhelmed. Mike’s gone, I’m hurt, and I must face this impossible situation. It’s so damn scary it seems unreal. Maybe it isn’t real.

I consider the possibility that I’m actually still trapped under the snow, dying. Maybe the air is all gone, and I am just spending my last oxygen molecules wistfully concocting some self-soothing, implausible flight to life.

Maybe I’m already dead.

No. I’m terrified and apprehensive about everything. I don’t think I would feel this scared if I were already gone. And when I tilt my head to the left in a self-induced pain check, fire shoots up my neck and my left hand tingles uncomfortably. You can’t feel pain if you’re dead, so I must be alive. This must all be real.

THE GEAR RACK
is sorted, and I have Mike’s ice tools now. I am clipped safely to the anchor screws with a sling. I stare at our supple yellow rope, trying to figure out how I can use it to protect myself during the climb out. Thoughts of climbing bring thoughts of belaying and, with them, a sober realization: There’s no one here to belay me.

It’s an enormous obstacle. And then it hits me: I’m going to have to self-belay—something I’ve never done before.

I try imagining how a self-belay system might work, having only ever seen it in books. One end of our rope has to be anchored at the bottom. The other end has to be tied to me so that I could, theoretically, climb out its full 165-foot length. But I can’t quite envision how I will rig it to hold me tight on belay while still feeding out slack as I ascend. I review the tie-in options I know, but none seem right. Since I was fifteen and Dad steered me toward the Concord library’s adventure literature, I’ve had a voracious appetite for mountaineering books. My mind flips back through snippets and half-remembered diagrams from all the climbing manuals I’ve read. Mental pictures pop up from a decade of tent and campfire gatherings with other climbers—snapshot images of rope tricks, tips, and knots.

My hands unconsciously fiddle with a rope strand as I recall various knots. Old standards like the bowline, figure eight, and square knots aren’t helpful. I could never remember how to tie a sheepshank—God, I hope that’s not the one I need; if so, I’m screwed.

I need a knot that can move along with me as I climb. A basic Prusik loop wrapped around the main climbing rope, like the one I used earlier on the rappel, could serve as a sliding friction knot. With the other end of that Prusik loop clipped to my harness, it would serve as a short leash, attaching me securely to the main rope. I figure I can scoot the Prusik loop up the rope with me, steadily increasing the length of climbing rope between me and the bottom anchor screw. But if I fall, the Prusik should cinch down tight and hold me. This will provide the adjustable self-belay I need.

I know I’m right; now I just have to determine exactly how to rig this rope system through my ice-screw protection. I picture it one way, then another. Each time I think a few steps ahead, I get confused.

Pressing my forehead against the crevasse wall, I close my eyes
and search for the answer. Frustrated, I gently tap my forehead against the hard crevasse wall. The ice burns my skin. Suddenly, I open my eyes, realizing I can practice on the two ice screws already in the wall. I can tie one end of the rope to the bottom screw, run it up through a biner on the second screw, and then rig and test my self-belay system.

To do all this I need to free the climbing rope from Mike’s harness. First, I have to secure Mike to the wall with a piece of webbing—I can’t let him fall in. I scan the gear and glimpse a bundle of half-inch pink webbing about twenty feet long. Mike always left it untied to use as an adjustable anchor sling. At times it snagged, annoying me, but Mike liked it.

I attach one end to Mike’s harness and tie him tight to the ice screw, letting the excess webbing dangle loose. The rope remains tied to him by a figure-eight-on-a-bight knot into the locking carabiner on his harness. The easiest way to disconnect it is to unclip the carabiner, but the locking screw gate won’t budge. Yanking my gloves off for a better grip, I feel frigid aluminum bite my skin when I grab the biner. I twist and pull, but it’s jammed.

Figuring it’s frozen, I warm the biner between my shaking hands. I pry and push, pull and jerk, but nothing works. I even smack the knurled locking sleeve of the carabiner with the ice hammer, trying to knock it loose. Nothing.

Unable to open the biner, I figure I’ll just cut the rope off it.

I pull out my knife, snap open the blade, and reach for the rope, then stop short in a wave of panic.

What are you doing?

Before I cut the rope, I had better think it through. There is 165 feet of rope. Mike is tied in about one-third of the way from one end. If I cut it at his harness point, I’ll have about 110 feet of rope left, but that might not be enough. I double-check my wall-height estimate the way Dad taught me, mentally stacking imaginary people,
one on top of another, until they reach the snow bridge’s roof. It’s roughly eighty feet to the crevasse lip, give or take. But what if zigs and zags demand more rope? What if the climbing or rappelling requires me to double up the rope? Then 110 feet might not be enough. No, I shouldn’t cut the rope.

If I can’t get the rope off Mike’s carabiner, I’ll just remove that biner from his harness. After unthreading Mike’s waist belt, I easily free the locking biner from that half of his purple harness. Then I rebuckle the waist belt so that Mike remains clipped to the anchor.

But the jammed carabiner is only partway off Mike—it’s still clipped through his harness’s leg loops. There’s no way to unthread his permanently sewn leg loops, though, so the biner and rope are still stuck to Mike’s harness. This is a serious problem. I resume struggling to open the biner, on my knees, hunched over Mike, with my shoulders barely able to fit crossways in the narrow crevasse. Every time I lift my arms to put some muscle into my efforts, I bump against the ice. I curse the tight space and jab an angry elbow at the wall behind me.

Since I can’t detach the carabiner from his leg loops, I realize that I’ll have to cut the loops off the biner. The thought startles me—slashing through his harness seems almost evil, as if it somehow desecrates our partnership or says that I am willing to put him at risk to save myself. Good Lord, what if I don’t live through this and someone finds us both dead, with part of Mike’s harness cut through? Will they think I did something murderous down here? I’d rather give up and die here, stopped short by one stuck carabiner, than risk anyone thinking that. I soothe myself with the thought that I’m not really putting Mike at greater risk; he’s still anchored in by his waist belt.

I double-check Mike, running my hands and eyes along his sling. He’s secure. Reassured, I dig my jackknife from my parka pocket and flip open the small blade. I puff out a breath to steady myself,
then pull the blade across the central tie-in point of Mike’s purple leg loops. A second swipe with the knife finishes the job, and the rugged webbing flops open.

I pull the biner straight out the opening I just cut through the central attachment loop. With the carabiner off his harness, at least the entire rope is free from Mike. Now I need to get the biner off the rope. I stand to give myself more room to fight it. Though I apply more strength, it’s still stuck. Agitated at this continuing roadblock, I lash out angrily: “Man, I want to talk with the idiot who designed this stupid thing.”

Rather than struggling further to open the jammed biner, I realize I can instead just untie the knot from around it. But the fall cinched the knot so tight that it’s almost as dense as a baseball. Using fingers and teeth, I push, prod, and pull the tightly bound clump of rope. Frustrated, I fight it, but it won’t budge. Figuring there might be ice freezing it shut, I stuff the knot partway into my mouth and exhale forcefully onto it for a few minutes. Dirt and aluminum dust from our gear leave the rope tasting like a dry soda can. I gently chomp my teeth on the knot and feel it soften. Taking it from my mouth, I work at all four strands forming the knot, making slow progress. I pull two strands in opposite directions, as if I’m prying open elevator doors, and the stubborn knot yields at last.

Finally, I pull the fifty-five-foot end of the rope all the way through the loose knot, freeing it from the broken carabiner. I glance at the stuck biner—it’s useless now, and I think about tossing it away. But instinct urges me not to. I took it off Mike, so it’s important now. I open the right chest pocket of my parka and drop Mike’s biner inside.

Still a little shaken at how close I came to mistakenly cutting the rope, I’m thrilled to have the whole 165 feet back, undamaged. Reclaiming our rope while still keeping both of us anchored gives me some confidence that I’m working all of this through. Now that I
have the rope free, I tie one end to my leg loops and waist harness. At the other end, I weave a figure-eight-on-a-bight knot and clip it to our anchor screw with a locking biner. I wrap my Prusik loop around the climbing rope just a few feet up from the bottom anchor and clip the loop back to my harness with another locking biner. The rigging is almost ready, but I still need to test my first ever self-belay system before my life depends on it.

I reach up and clip my climbing rope through the upper anchor screw, as if I had just led a short section of wall. Sinking my body down, I slowly settle my weight onto the Prusik-held rope. The friction knot clenches tight, and my 170 pounds stretch the skinny Prusik cord and climbing rope taut. I flick the tensioned lines, and watch with satisfaction as they vibrate and stop. When I lift my feet off our snow ledge, my suspended body slumps against one ice wall.

My system holds.

NOW MORE THAN
an hour has passed since Mike and I crashed through the snow bridge. It is almost time to climb. Trying to envision myself making it up there, I keep glancing high above me in the crevasse. The upper chamber glows iridescent blue, as if some alien light emanates from the ice itself.

I’ve decided to leave only one ice screw as the bottom anchor and take the other. Remembering that the upper screw felt weaker when I placed it, I strip off the biner. Sticking the ice hammer’s pick into the screw’s eye, I twist it back out of the wall. The threads squeak in protest against the dry, hard ice. Once the screw is out, I blow the ice core from the middle of the hollow tube. Now I have five ice screws with which to climb—not nearly enough, but better than four.

Since we’ve been down here, chunks of snow and ice have crashed around us, and I know I need a helmet. But mine’s deeper in
the crevasse, broken. I briefly consider going back down again to get it, but I shudder at the work, and the time, and the fear it will involve. What if something goes wrong this time and I don’t make it back to the ledge safely?

I could wear Mike’s helmet, but taking it from him feels sacrilegious—that’s his, not mine.

However, Mike and I had always agreed that on the mountain, there was no “yours” or “mine,” only “ours.” We always pooled our resources—food, water, clothing, carabiners. It didn’t matter if one of us dropped something, or the other guy broke something. We’re in it together. We just split the cost after we got home; paying with beers and burgers was the preferred settlement method.

Still, taking Mike’s helmet feels like stripping him naked. I think briefly about hoisting him up as I climb but quickly toss the idea aside, torn between knowing that I can’t take him with me and wishing that I didn’t have to leave him behind.

My mind roils. The only thing I can do for Mike now is climb out and tell his family what happened to him, and get him off the mountain. I have to make it out, and wearing Mike’s helmet will improve my chances.

With that thought, my resolve gets stoked a bit higher. Before I lose the courage to act, I reach down, fiddle with the strap on Mike’s blue helmet, and pull it off him. I grit my teeth, grab the chin strap, and cinch the helmet down hard onto my head.

Reaching down again, I gently set Mike’s sunglasses back over his eyes. I snug his gloves fully back onto his hands. I look over his waist harness and anchor sling—they’re good. Again I inspect that lone ice screw in the wall that will keep Mike from plunging in any deeper and will also be my bottom anchor. I like it that we are both tied into the same screw.

It will work for both of us, or it will work for neither of us. We’re still in this together.

I PLAY WITH
the gear, stalling—the way I sometimes do when I face something scary. In these situations, Mike always urged me on, infusing me with an empowering energy in moments of uncertainty. We’ll be on the rock, and it’ll be my turn to lead, and I’ll hesitate, afraid it’s too much for me, fiddling with the gear, buying time. Mike will sense this and move to cut it off.