Daydreams of Ice
I think every woman in need of a sense of empowerment should swing a set of ice axes. At least, that’s what I remember thinking the last time I got out there and swung mine. No wonder my friend Wendy stores hers under the bed in the event of an intruder…
**
I blow the dust off the top of the plastic bin in which I’ve stowed my gear down in the furnace room. Reaching in, I yank on a familiar looking handle, give it a jiggle to disentangle the wrist leash and steel pick from all the others, and poise it in the light. Even in the confines of my basement, its fangs glint, ready to bite.
I’m yearning to swing again. Then I remember the warning given to me last time by my friend John, a bear-sized Scot, built like an actor straight out of the movie Highlander:
“You can’t be headstrong with ice, Danie.” He shakes his head and surveys me keenly.
I take it to mean he thinks I’m headstrong, which, clearly, he does…
“It’s not the same as rock. It’s not as forgiving.” He enunciates his words and looks me straight in the eye to make sure I’m listening. “It’s not as solid.”
Yes, yes, John. I know all this about ice-and believe me-I have no intention of going at it in a headstrong manner. And hey, the last time you and I went out, you were so cautious we didn't even get off the ground, remember? At any rate, gimme a big fat toprope-I’ll take it!-and I’ll climb to my heart’s content…
Yeah, until the bug bites, whispers my subconscious. That’s what happened with rock climbing. Suddenly, one day, you’ll look up: She’ll be beautiful, that glorious pitch; there won’t be an experienced hardman in sight to put the toprope up for you, and-just like that-you’ll want to lead her.
But that won’t happen! I like to ski too much and they occupy the same season. Hmmm… What is John saying now? I missed that last bit.
**
I’m currently enrolled in the women’s clinic to be held Friday morning at the annual Ice Festival in Bozeman, MT, where my friend John and his wife, Bevin, reside. The clinic will be taught by Himalayan veteran and Patagonia sponsored athlete, Kitty Calhoun. After a morning of instruction, topropes will abound. Most likely, the toprope anchors will be threaded around ent-sized trees at the top of the cliff, totems of strength less likely to give way than the Eiffel Tower. In a day, I’ll safely climb as many pre-rigged pitches as I can muster.
The last time I ran into the famous Kitty Calhoun, she asked me for directions at the crag. When I recommended to her the route neighboring mine, she shook her head and replied, as verbosely as a cattle rancher, “somethin' easier.” I’m still feeling a touch smug about that, truth be told, though it’s terribly dangerous for me to believe I could best the formidable Kitty at so much as a card game. Nonetheless, I’m using my relatively high rock skills as a little mental boost of confidence that I’m destined for greatness in my ice clinic. After all, they’re close cousins, rock and ice.
And surely Kitty will have better advice than those wise-cracking boys I used to work with at the mountaineering company. The last time I asked one of them for beta on ice climbing, I got this much:
Garrett taps away at his keyboard, failing to look up from the screen. Watching him, I spy the beginnings of a receding hairline, something his string of ex-girlfriends have told me he’s sensitive about, even if he’s sensitive about frustratingly little else, they say.
“What’d you just ask me, Dee-Dub?” he drawls in his home state of Georgia accent, taking his usual liberty with my initials.
“I said, I’m going ice climbing tonight and I know nothing about it. Rick (the engineer who oversees the ice climbing equipment manufacturing line) is taking Theresa and me up the Great White Icicle by the light of the full moon. What do I do?”
He shakes his head absently and continues tapping away. “Just swing and kick, Dee-Dub. Just swing and kick.”
I sigh.
**
They say you develop an ear for ice as you learn to swing at it:
Tack! Tack! Tack!- Tock! That’s a standard pick placement.
Shhhrrrrrr! That’s surface hoar breaking free. Hoar is bad…Hoar is bad…
The sound of a bottle being thrown in the glass recycling bin? The ice is too hard, too cold, too brittle. Beware.
And a nice squelching noise when the pick enters? That means it’s desirably plastic in nature. Climb on!
Of course there’s a veritable symphony of sounds out there, but these are the only four I know so far. Of those listed, I’ll take the first and the last, thanks…and that big fat toprope of which I spoke earlier.
Still standing in the basement, I finally lower the pick down from the ray of light. The glinting teeth change in hue to a matte finish. The personified fangs become harder to make out, like a cloud animal that has deceptively shifted shape.
Now what was I up to again? Oh right...
I strap the axes to the outside of my half-filled purple backpack, cautiously athirst to sink their picks into some Montana ice.
A/N: I call all pitches ‘she’ for the simple reason that the French climbers are known for gazing up at the cliff with stardust in their eyes, and exclaiming, “Elle est belle!” Translation: “She is beautiful!” This idiosyncrasy, as well as their unvarying habit of lunching on baguettes, always endearingly sets those French mountaineers apart in my mind.
On another note, someone's bound to think I'm a deathwish nutter again, I just know it. Ah well, I had too much fun to care! And a girl has to write about something. ; )