Hardwear Sessions

The Discovery, the boat on which we traveled, was strong enough to slowly nudge the geometric frozen sea shapes out of our way. On many of these sea-ice plates there were black-and-gray-spotted ring seals, their fur coats reminded me of a leopard's. The seals would wake up from languid, sunny naps, too lazy to move, and wonder what kind of sea monster we were. Some of these seals would be way-too-easy hunting for the Inuit to bring back as dinner to their families and sled dogs. I gazed out over the dark blue sea polka-dotted with sea-ice chunks that looked like sparkling diamonds the size of boulders, in the distance I could see steep black mountains and walls on the shore striped with white couloirs. My nostrils numbed from the arctic air as I took in long, slow, deep breaths. With a large smile that quickly turned to a giddy giggle, I embraced being back in the arms of Greenland.

After 35 hours and 230 miles of the arctic sea-gallery tour, we headed west and started into the giant mouth of Skjoldungen Fjord. Serpentine glaciers snaked from the tops of the stone mountains 5,000 feet down between giant granite thrones, like huge white tongues reaching to touch and taste the ocean. As we entered the fjord, its massive walls looked like gateposts to an ancient kingdom of Viking Gods. "Skjoldungen," I was told, translates to "Shield for the Children."

We sailed slowly under grand walls that were so steep and massive they made the boat look like a toy. Soon the fjord turned into a massive hallway of rock walls and pointy witch-hat towers, each one God's artwork to a climber's eye. We inspected them through binoculars and rifle-scopes, scanning for systems of cracks that led to summits, like fine-art connoisseurs trying to interpret the meaning of some masterpieces of sculpture. Waterfalls slithered and hissed from icecaps atop stone shields thousands of feet down into the ocean. We spent the morning looking for potential routes on the plethora of walls. Three walls in particular spoke to us offering beautiful cracks and pointy summits -- they seemed to dare us to come and climb them. The captain of the boat let us know he was nearing the halfway point of fuel capacity, so we needed to decide where to be dropped off so he could turn back towards home.

Unfortunately, on closer inspection, all of the routes we fancied showed sections of rotten, loose rock that almost certainly meant disaster. Then, suddenly, simultaneously, Josh and I spotted a system of super-thin cracks on an hourglass-shaped shield of granite near the back of the 40-mile long fjord. These fractures in the blank stone were so thin they were barely visible through binoculars. The system of cracks started from the ground and led all the way to the summit. They reminded me of Yosemite: thin aid seams, finger cracks of joyous free climbing, and mysterious, ominous-looking offwidths and chimneys. I could feel the urge, the passion; like a dog in heat once again. Soon my love affair with gravity in Greenland would recommence.

Lenticular clouds rushed high into the sky like long, sweeping, white brush strokes, a common sign that angry weather could very well be on the way. Charcoal clouds and howling wind had followed us into the fjord. When the boat left us and started its journey back to Tasiilaq, the familiar smell of rain was in the air. Above our drop-off point on a rocky shore, steep slabs and talus formed a 1,000-foot-long ramp up to the base of the wall we wanted to climb. The angle of Earth from the shore to the wall was so steep it took several hours of stone craft to create a level space for our tent just 40 feet from the ocean's edge. Immediately, sinister biting, stinging monsters attacked, drawing our blood; an entire colony of mosquitoes had declared war on our skin. We noticed there were two different species of mosquitoes and one kind of gnat or fly, and when the gnat found bare skin, it left a small spot of blood where it had bitten off a chunk of flesh. We wore head-nets from that point on.

Like any expedition in remote lands, having your tent-refuge anchored and ready for hurricane-force wind is a priority. If there is one thing I have learned over the years on expeditions around the world it is that the Wind Gods often like to play games. On my four previous expeditions to East Greenland, I endured plenty of rain, snow, and wind--but nothing much more than the 40-mph range--so I expected to have relatively similar weather. But I was dead wrong. First came short gusts of wind that caused enough concern for us to double-check our tent anchors, then add a couple more for good measure. We made certain that the anchors were mathematically 100%. Then came stronger gusts that tried to lift our tent and snap the cords anchoring it to earth. We waited anxiously, then the wind became truly angry. The tent walls began to cave in from horrific gusts that bent the poles down far enough to touch our sleeping bags, right on the verge of snapping. We desperately packed everything into haul bags and duffels, put all of our harsh-weather gear on, and then stood with our backs against the interior tent walls, holding the poles in place, trying to help the tent withstand the severe lashing of warrior-gusts that, one after another, tried to break us. For two hours we stood in solidarity with our base-camp tent, enduring raging winds that attacked in terrific bursts again and again.

We could hear the wind bouncing off land and sea before it hit us, its war cries warning us just before contact. The gusts were so strong at times, it took all of our strength to support the tent walls. Then, the mother load came. It sounded like a rumbling freight train, its wind-scream roaring and exploding off the ocean and steep walls around us, then one final war cry of attack just before it hit us. Both Josh and I were blown down, with full rage and fury the tent exploded and ripped in two, tent poles flailed like slashing swords, our tent had transformed into a savage monster. We dove out of the tent-beast and watched it thrashing and swinging its broken aluminum poles and nylon limbs. We already had our bivy sacks ready and we huddled behind a huge boulder. The last horrific blast of wind that destroyed our tent was the crux of the storm's rage. In less than an hour, the wind died off into what seemed a lazy breeze compared to the madness we just experienced. We set up our remaining small, portaledge tent.

When morning dawned gray, we cleaned up the slain tent monster that lay grotesquely on the stony ground, made coffee and oatmeal in the rain, and started shuttling loads of climbing gear to the base of the wall. The only good thing about the wind was that it had blown the vicious attacking bugs away. As soon as the wind slowed, the bugs were back in full force, looking for any exposed morsel of skin and blood. Head-nets were reapplied.

Rain fell for several days after the windstorm. Climbing walls in the snow is usually manageable, but rain is an enemy for obvious reasons. In the next week we managed to get our gear to the wall and fix a few pitches, water constantly dripping from our jacket hoods and haul bags. Even in the rain the bugs continued their assault -- this would be the first time Josh and I have ever climbed a wall in a head net.

Josh jugging up to high point to fix more pitches

For two days smiling sunshine poked its head out now and then, allowing us to climb 800 feet up to the gold headwall where the stellar splitter cracks we had scoped from the boat began. A crack that started thin as a razor blade and widened to the thickness of a Clif Bar split the blank, gold, granite face up the wall for as far as we could see. We set up our portaledge, on top we mounted our EV Direct 2 for our shelter from the storm. Our view below was a turquoise ocean canal dotted with white icebergs drifting in the fjord currents. Shadows of neighboring giant towers moved across the valley. Far off in the distance, black clouds, like armies of filthy, black, Middle-earth Orcs marched towards us. The brief glimpse of sun would soon turn to rain again. Our one and only hope was that the sinister wind would not return while we were in our portaledge on the wall. If it did, there was no telling what could happen.

Eventually, the sun came back for an extended visit and allowed us to feast on the succulent thin cracks that lured us to this route. From the view on the boat the cracks were like lines drawn with a pencil on a gold colored paper. They seduced us here as if a siren song. Josh quickly maneuvered gracefully up the first section. I was envious of the perfect crack he climbed, one of the best unclimbed pitches I have ever seen. His pitch ended after 200 feet of 5.11 fingers. I had to take him off belay so he could stretch the rope to reach his desired anchor point. Cleaning pitches can also be glorious: getting to see the pitch for the first time following, realizing how much fun it must have been to lead -- I cannot think of one aspect of wall climbing that is not enjoyable.

Josh leading to get to the splitters, sweet golden granite

This spectacular crack just happened to end under an arching corner that went up for about 75 feet, then into a blank face for maybe 20 feet, then continued into another hairline, pencil-drawn crack that continued up further than we could see. Soon I was on lead nailing in blades, arrows, and the eensie-weensiest Black Diamond cams. Mellow A2 ended, and I started into a few upside-down Pecker placements levered in the kitty-litter, bomb-bay seams. They were so delicate I could not bounce test them, they would have come ripping out sending me onto the next piece that would hopefully hold the force of my weight in motion. Worse, if the tiny bird-beak-shaped pitons had blown the rock out there might not have been any seams left in which to place gear. I breathed soft and slow as to not add any unnecessary force to the time-bomb gear I hung on. Then, a few placements later, I found the face blank above me.

Up and to my left the thin crack began again in the golden stone, but there was 20 feet of blank, crackless face to get there. Drilling was out of the question. Our goal has always been to use only natural features to reach the summit. I called down to Josh, "Send up the hooks!" From 80 feet below Josh sent up several different sized hooks that I could delicately, with the utmost of patience, set on tiny edges of stone and gain upward progress. As I scanned the rock, I found tiny features and edges, some only the width of a nickel. On each daisy chain I clipped a small selection of hooks, so each end was like a Swiss-army-knife selection of different hook sizes. They look like thick fish hooks, two to three inches long, and are used in a grappling-hook sort of way. My goal was to hook on a small edge to hold my body weight, then continue the process, running out the distance between my last decent piece of protection to the hooks balancing on tiny edges of granite specs, a huge whipper always in the back of my mind. More than anything, focus and confidence must rule when hooking -- it is a delicate moment of fall potential without warning, and can ruin the climb and turn the gold granite red with blood. I found places for the hooks to hold, and soon after several hook-leap-frog placements found myself top stepping a Cliffhanger hook with a micro-nut that sunk perfectly into the seam above me. For those who have known moments of huge fall potential on hooks that end with placement of a bomber piece, you understand the feeling of joy mixed with sweet sorrow at the end of the ultimate rush. After Josh cleaned the pitch, he told me he could not tell where I placed the hooks, even after reading the wall like Braille.

Portaledge camp

After two more nights on the wall gazing at dreamy panoramic views of arctic wilderness, savoring hot chocolate and mashed potatoes mixed with tuna, dealing with vertical bathroom duties, listening to mosquitoes buzz and fixing some amazing pitches, it was time to make a push for the summit. There were many pitches I will never forget from this route, but one stands alone in the gallery of my mind. A big gaping offwidth-into-chimney that resembled a cave Satan himself might dwell in from time to time, was the crux pitch because of the all-around groveling and shenanigans needed to get up it. We swapped leading pitches as we do on every wall we climb, and Josh was dealt the unholy looking pitch. It began with a mixture of overhanging offwidth and squeeze. The only way Josh could fit into it was by taking off his helmet and his fat rack of gear, clipping them below the offwidth-squeeze opening, then, climbing in. After fixing a couple pieces of gear into the wider chimney above, he lowered to retrieve his helmet and rack, hauling it below him as he climbed back up so it would all fit into the tight squeeze. He then continued up the gaping black chimney. Two hundred feet of rope stretched up from my harness when I faintly heard Josh yell, "Off belay." Cleaning the pitch was spectacular -- I could see that if Josh had fallen, most likely the gear would have stopped him, but only after the dynamic-rope stretched and tightened, turning Josh into the little metal ball inside of a Pachinko machine, bouncing off jagged stone chimney walls as he fell.

It was late August, just past the days of 24-hour sunlight, the arctic sky darkened as we neared the top of the wall. We were mostly graced with clean, climber-loving pitches. The blue horizon turned to princess-pink then fire-amber. We found ourselves on the summit looking west over the massive Greenland Icecap. To the east we could see over the tops of mountains that made up the fjord walls and ridges, beyond that there was the giant open arctic sea with sailing icebergs the size of cruise ships. And somewhere out there were Iceland and Svalbard.

While on top we explored flat, glacier-carved stone fields and shallow ponds of water so clear the water was invisible. We drank the almost-frozen liquid to cleanse our bodies and spirits. The melted icecap water tasted of pure nature and life-giving energy. We put on our plastic Rat masks, and celebrated the Year of the Rat Expeditions. I personally celebrated my fifth first ascent in Greenland, and found closure with my obsession here. I felt ready to focus my energy on other remote lands that are home to big, virgin walls.

Year of the Rat summit

On the rappel down we stopped at a giant natural ledge a few hundred feet below the summit to nap, not only because we were exhausted from the last 24 hours of climbing, but this bivy ledge was too perfect: It was meant for a climber to sleep on -- it had a giant thin flake that had collapsed over it forming a natural roof. We arranged our ropes in a zig-zag fashion creating a mattress, slid into our packs up to our waists, cinched our hoods around our faces, then shivered until the sun came out. Before long we were taking clothes off because of the intense, radiant sunshine that emerged out from the vertical horizon of the wall. Later that day we enjoyed another nap in our portaledge, then eventually lowered our bodies and haul-bags slowly and safely to the ground.

I fell in love with Greenland all over again on this journey. The feeling of saying good-bye for my fifth time to this land of enchantment was not one of sweet sorrow, but of letting go, like finally being over a break-up in a relationship. I have found out about new lands on other continents to fall in love with, and have information about virgin big walls, spires and mountains among cultures, flora and fauna that I have yet to meet. Actually, I am in the midst of researching over a dozen mysterious, remote areas that are rumored to hold untouched stone. There is not a day that goes by that I don't appreciate my love--my obsession--for the virgin vertical world and the commitment and exploration to find it. The time is now and absolutely constant. Old age and death are coming without a doubt. We must live sweet and pursue our passions that create organic enthusiasm. Why ration passion?