Climbing and skiing The Grand- The first (and only) female descent.
Written: Dec 01 '99
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Product Rating:
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Pros: its dangerous
Cons: its dangerous
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| kristenulmer's Full Review: The Grand Teton |
My frozen hands are shaking so violently I can't feed the rope through the rappel device. Oh MAN this is so out of control. Come on fingers, please work…
BOOM! I jerk my eyes up. What's that what's that what's that!
Squinting through murky rain and fog I expect the rush of another dense, waterlogged avalanche crashing from above. I wait, breathing heavy, listening to the steady spray of a waterfall just under the ice and the soft patter of slush landing on rocks. Nothing. Was it thunder? Hard to believe. For the last 4 hours, since the middle of our ski descent, monster slides have been ripping from the upper slopes every 5-10 minutes.
They were falling 15 feet away from our safety perch, hitting the berm and exploding into the air like tidal waves before crashing down the skinny, near-vertical Stettner Couloir. Tom, Ptor and I sat for 3 hours timing them, remembering lyrics to Frank Zappa songs and trying to talk about anything except the fact we have to make this exposed 7-pitch leap of faith right down the slide path. We gave up awhile ago to just stared.
And then, we feel our collective intuition scream NOW! Okay, okay time to get off this mountain. A storm has moved in. The cold rain soaks our gloves and clothing, the temperature dropped 10 degrees in the last half hour, and an eerie fog has shut our vision down to 30 feet. This means the avalanches will probably stop. Probably… This also means new snow loading on the upper slopes and eventually, another round of rippers. It'll take over an hour to rappel down the Stettner, and if another slide comes during the descent, we all die. The last one ripped through just 5 minutes ago.
Please hands, WORK! Ptor is becoming hypothermic. I'm trying to thread a needle with boxing gloves on.
You SON of a…THERE! The rope's through. I snap it into my harness and look toward Tom's wide, focused eyes…my best friend. This is it, this is it! A ticking time-bomb. Taking a deep breath I snap off all emotions and lean the weight of my body and heavy ski pack over the edge and onto two corn-size metal nuts wedged in a crack. Clutching a soggy death grip on the thin, slippery rope, my crampons suddenly crash through a vertical wall of mush and I'm sucked waist-deep into the flow of a gushing waterfall.
I tear down that chute faster than I ever have in my life.
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I'm home now. We did it…so what. We skied that stupid Grand Teton and obviously managed to descend the Stettner without getting flushed. Tom and I are talking to each other on the phone for the twentieth time this week and my mind is still numb. Unable to form any intelligent thoughts about the whole experience, shaking my head; "That was crazy, that was sooo crazy" I mumble over and over like a spastic parrot.
Usually after our exciting, death-sport trips we whirl in love for life and an exquisite sense of satisfaction. But this time it was too much. Both of us haven't slept for days. When we close our eyes we have these sick, dark images of so many places where things could have gone wrong. TOM wonders out loud for the buzzillionth time "Why do we do it?".
The last time he asked that question was a month ago. Having just come down from our first attempt we sat, our 60
pound packs resting on a nearby rock, enjoying the clean smell of a little mountain brook. It burbled happily, and despite being awake for two straight days, we giggled into the air and dripped in a world of euphoria. Tom stopped and looked over to his Ford truck parked across the meadow. "You know" he realized, "all it would take for Vivienne (a close friend) to feel this happy is to walk here from the truck and enjoy the water. Why do WE have to do THAT" he pointed at The Grand, "to feel this same way?".
Dairy note, June 8: We did it! I drove home fast from Jackson playing Dave Matthews' "Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we DIE" over and over. Between waves of giddiness, I suddenly burst into tears. I'm so incredibly happy right now, but am terrified because I really, really loved it. And you can't keep doing things like The Grand under those conditions and expect to live. That's why I cry. But I remember resting my head on the snow while climbing and adoring that big, scary mountain so, so much.
Our plan to try The Grand was rooted last summer when we met in Jackson for some rock climbing. Like most tourists we found ourselves staring at the jagged mountain in awe, and like most hard core skiers I focused on the remaining top snow. "Wow, it looks ski-able" I noticed, completely naïve to the mountain history. Tom in his soft, friendly manner filled me in. "A few men, anywhere from 20-60 depending on how much beer is consumed in the bar, have skied it. It's pretty intense. But no woman has skied it, you should try and be the first".
Okay then. Now one year later and droning on the phone about Tom's injection mold business, desperately needing the psyche of life again we summoned our plan. "Let's drive tonight and try it tomorrow" was the logical decision. And we were on our way to start what would become the most serious ski project we'd ever experienced.
The first attempt was so spontaneous, so miserable, yet so good. Alex Lowe wanted to come along…very cool. He's THE cardio-vascular mutant, and the man that impresses more than any other athlete I've ever know or heard about, in any sport. His resume makes fellow climbers, no matter how egotistical or braggart, feel worthless and lame. A friend faxed Tom our route instructions and a complicated two page gear list. Then he sent a page entitled "Gear list for Alex" where he scribbled, simply, "Nikes. Powerbar. Lip balm."
Only Alex knew of our plans, and rumor had it only one person was able to ski The Grand their first try. We felt no pressure. And at this point, we were just curious to know exactly what made skiing The Grand such a hassel.
For the Ford/Stettner route, as was understood; we must be able haul ourselves and gear 7000 vertical feet and still have the strength to make solid turns down a 45-55 slope on what is typically very bad snow. While skiing, if we fall or get swept an avalanche, we die; there's absolutely no question about it. Below is a shredding two thousand foot drop-off.
As scary and vulnerable as the skiing is, it's nothing compared to the crap-shoot while climbing up. The route includes traverse and hike zones that sit below blind avalanche paths. If unlucky, we'd hear a slight rumble then get pounded by free-falling snow coming off the cliffs. But the real danger is the Stettner Couloir.
Sitting exposed and ominous above a 1000 foot sheer cliff, the Stettner is a skinny 1000 foot mixed ice and rock climb with 6 different vertical bulges to negotiate. The climbing itself, always done with crampons and two ice axes, isn't overly technical. What makes the slot so scary is the constant, and I mean constant rain of ice, rocks, or water pelting on our heads from the slopes above. Then if an avalanche rips, which is often, it always flushes down the Stettner. And there's no where to hide if one comes…
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THE FIRST ATTEMPT
May 7: "So what'd you do this weekend?" Oh, nothing…
Ha! We joked to relieve the pressure: back on earth for two days and an all-you-can-eat buffet and we'll return to normal. But that's not true. The first trip was like a slap. I'd be washing dishes or feeding the cat and have to stop, close my eyes and shake my head. Was it REAL? Did we really DO that?
We should have known that afternoon in the parking lot how rough things would be. While unloading gear from Tom's Ford we listened to the plans of another pair sorting their own ski loads. They talked about wanting to try The Grand, but decided they didn't have enough time- only two days. Tom and I bulged our eyes quietly. We'd packed for 24 hours.
Being no dummies we planned our start 12 hours before The Mutant, expecting he'd catch up around 4am mid-mountain.
The snow was a melting squishy. It wasn't skinning 4000 vertical feet through the mank, it was lurching and yanking, and punching whole skis a foot deep every few steps. We wanted to scream and curse at every drop of water that ever drizzled from the sky. Just before dark, Tom stopped; "Do you notice something wrong here?" Oh Boy. We were on the wrong side of the mountain.
It appeared we could climb straight up an east-facing couloir to correct ourselves. Too worn to continue, we first choked down dried salmon and tried to get some sleep.
At 1:45 my Avocet screamed WAKE-UP for the final push. It was steep now and time to move on foot. Three steps into our crawl Tom blew through the snow-muck and sunk to his hip. 'This mountain is trying to eat us' I reasoned in a tired stupor.
What a bad sign. The snow hadn't frozen overnight. That meant bad avalanche danger and a slow, exhausting climb. At 6 am, just below the Stettner it happened, a huge slide ripped over the cliffs and covered the boot tracks we'd made just 10 minutes ago.
Alex meanwhile, was post-holing from the valley all night trying to catch up. He came upon the grisly sight of those tracks disappearing into the slide. Tom and I saw him pondering the mess and blew a whistle to let him know we still existed.
I was halfway up the first pitch of the Stettner and getting pelted with a constant shower of dancing ice crystals by the time he reached us. "No, no, that's not the Stettner" Alex said convincingly. So I down-climbed and we struggled for an hour around the corner only to learn it actually had been the correct route. My shoulders sagged. Tom groaned.
But we were glad Alex was there. He'd been on so many exposed climbs and survived without a scratch or even a bar brag, so the Stettner didn't seem scary anymore. "Do you need a rope?" he asked, back again at the ice. "Nope" I replied with confidence, everything was going to be just fine.
HA! At the first ice bulge I found myself dangling on the front half-inch of two axes searching blindly for foot holds on vertical rock covered with watery slush. I looked up for better tool placements and WHAM! got clobbered in the nose by a fist-size chunk of free-falling ice. "This is stupid" I thought, my nose starting to swell. "I'm soloing ice with Alex Lowe". It was perhaps the most obvious do-or-die situation of my life. I had no choice but to shut my brain off and yank with everything I had on those axes, screaming a slew of obscenities, up and over the bulge.
"Throw down a ROPE!" I yelled to Alex. Tom was behind me offering his own loud, obscene ideas about the move. Two rope ends flew down with a snap and we tied in. Five minutes later I realized we weren't actually being belayed, but just tied all together in an upside down V to Alex climbing above.
It's a heavy thought to realize if you fall, you die. But it's even heavier to realize if you fall, you kill the worlds best climber and a father of three, and your best friend and a father of two. I spent the next hour repeating over and over "Don't kill Alex, Don't kill Tom", and you can be very certain that no way, with each slam of my axes and crampons, did I plan to fall.
We made it to the top which connected to the Ford couloir and the snow we intended to ski. Here was our Frank Zappa perch, and it looked to be mellow and safe until I leaned over the edge. Holy Mother of God my heart jerked; thousands of feet straight down in every direction. We have to ski above this?
Not today. Only 1300 feet from the top, we were done. The avalanche danger was severe and only going to get worse as the sun rose. "Besides" I told Alex "I don't care about bagging the peak. I'm into skiing today, not climbing. Let's go home".
We should have just hiked to the top and down the easy tourist route, but it's more, ahhh…fun to rap down the Stettner. Especially with Alex. The anchors he placed were crazy; a knot tied in a 5mm rope and jammed in a crack, or one cheerio-sized nut beaten with an ax hammer into an open groove. The first time leaning back on one such set-up, I squinted at it hard, brow creasing and eyes dark and fiery. "Just don't look at it" mumbled Tom. That's the only way; trust Alex's experience and go. So I went.
Back across the death traverse, then a long mushy ski to our meadow. Alex B-lined to his cabin for an 8-hour nap. Alone again and calm at the brook, I asked Tom "What do you think Alex would have done if either of us had fallen while roped together?"
"Well" Tom replied, "I imagine he would have jumped off the other side of the cliff and been a human counter weight".
Yeah, sure.
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June 5: It's 4 am and I'm wide awake. I got up for a glass of water and tried to block it out, stay numb and just get some sleep. But it's an obsession wave in my brain. I finally gave up and lit a lemon candle. The glow makes beautiful patterns on the wall, the scent is wow, really strong. Everything feels safe and warm right now. But we're going back.
THE SECOND ATTEMPT
Then it became a circus. Everyone knew we planned to ski it. Photographers were calling, magazines wanted to send writers, local Jackson women were getting defensive. Cripes, was it that big a deal?
June 11: Tom warned me it would be a big deal, but I didn't believe him because skiing it was just another cool thing we were doing together and that should be enough. There are quite a few men who have skied the Grand who have their own epic stories to tell. But I guess the world is hungry for women who take risks.
So many reporters are calling. I find it easier to talk like a robot without feeling and give a tidy explanation; this happened, that happened, thanks for asking. Rather than sharing such a deeply personal experience. We put our lives out for this and it's weird it's turned into a spray fest before we have the luxury to get inside our heads and decide what we really think about the whole experience. If they ask me how I feel, I can't honestly say. All I know is I want to get on with my life.
I hid in Alaska for 2 weeks on a ski mountaineering trip and returned in early June. Tom and I were anxious for another epic. This time we partnered with Jackson local Mark Newcomb and at the last minute Canadian dirt-bag Ptor Spriceneiks jumped in, hitching a ride overnight from Telluride.
This second trip, when we actually skied it, was insane. No doubt it was done under the worst of conditions. Many consider us lucky to be alive, but some praise the accomplishment. We did have a good plan though and our intuition said do it.
We hiked all day and set up camp mid-mountain just as a heavy overnight rain storm kicked in. We climbed the Stettner with around 100 feet of rope protection the next morning just before the slides began. We climbed the upper snow field 5 feet from a deep, icy runnel scoop that angled the crashing snow towards the Stettner. We summitted around 11 am.
On June 8, 1997, we skied the Grand Teton. Was it a smart thing to do? Absolutely not. The snow was bottomless mush. The risk was huge. "I don't recommend skiing today" Mark had suggested. He's a smart man, he'd left his skis at camp. Mountain people know how hard it is to turn around after lugging a heavy pack for two days and reaching the top of a mountain, and you're a skier and you came to ski. And you don't live nearby and can't just run out the door and up the mountain whenever it looks good. At this point you don't make decisions based on intelligence, you make decisions based on passion and what makes life worth it.
I snapped on my skis and God it felt good. Breath. I looked at the slope below and thought "Avalanches? I can control you. Exposure? Love it." Okay mountain, here we go.
According to the boys, on my third turn I knocked down the mother of all slides. I remember jumping on the slope really hard and feeling it wash away and start to accelerate. I casually stepped off the top onto my uphill ski and the snow above. Tom calls it "the move". That monster accelerated like nothing we've ever seen, 70 mph- who knows, hit a rock wall, exploded into the air and could be heard crashing down the mountain for at least a minute.
"I can't watch this" Mark said, and walked away. I stayed focused and unaffected. So what. Keep skiing. Go. Now.
Skiing down the cleared slide path, every turn set off another major slough. The technique was take one turn, stop, wait for the slide to accelerate, then turn again, stop and wait again. Half way down Ptor took the lead. Crossing the slide runnel was amazing. "Watch me" he said. My heart beat like a hummingbird's wings. It was 5 feet deep and pure ice on a 55 degree slope. His full body weight rested on the tips and tails of his skis, threatening to bend them in half. On my turn I'd never felt more alert in my life; Will the skis hold? Is that an avalanche coming?
We finished the ski descent in under and hour. Then we waited for a long, long time.
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June 25: I'm writing this much later while relaxing on the couch. Eventually I hope to accept the risks we took. But, wow, that Stettner rappel will always be surreal. The thunder kept booming and each time we thought that was it- here comes the final avalanche. Then lightening would crackle through the dark sky and fog. I remember dangling freely at one point on those thin ropes completely submerged in the waterfall. Tom was just below setting up the next station. My arms where alarmingly tired and my gloves thick and awkward. The end of my rope swung only 10 feet below. What if I let go?… ZING!
Ptor wrote: Days and even weeks after the epic, the glowing euphoria that usually accompanies a ski-descent of such magnitude wasn't really there. The incredible objective danger we had exposed ourselves to stirred up certain questions about ourselves. Such thoughts aren't always pleasant to deal with. Especially when the option exists of staying at home to tend the garden.
But staying home can never be an option. At our perch I called my mom on Tom's cell phone. She was so relieved we had finished skiing. Looking over to the runnel, "Well it's not exactly over" I said, the sound of another slide drowning out my voice. Tom was talking to his wife about the slides when lightening first struck. "What's that?!" he yelled. It struck again and the phone went dead. He wouldn't talk to her for another 36 hours.
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June 28: Mark Newcomb e-mailed me yesterday. "We should go back to the Grand next winter and check out this new route that might be ski-able. It's awfully steep though."
Oh God, here we go again. Why do I do these things? Why?! I thought about it for two days and felt trapped. Finally, I e-mailed him back.
"Sure, I'd love to".
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kristenulmer
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Member: Kristen Ulmer
Location: Salt Lake City, Utah
Reviews written: 25
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