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Jen Higgins Fund - 2003
WALLFLOWERS:
A Female Expedition to the Vampire Spires
By Jasmin Caton
|
Route Info: Our route, which we named ‘Wallflower’ (to commemorate
the colourful flora destroyed by our efforts) linked the unfinished
‘After School Special’ with ‘Freebird’ in
13 long pitches, one of which was previously unclimbed. We placed
no protection bolts, 5 belay bolts, and used only clean aid. The
route could go free with enormous amounts of cleaning and a willingness
to climb sharp offwidths. |
The
rhythmic chopping of the tiny Hughes 500 helicopter faded until it was
indistinguishable from the dull roar of distant wind and rushing water.
Amelia Patterson and I giggled and tripped over our exclamations of awe as we gazed
at the scene surrounding us. To the east, the valley we were in drained
into a piercing cerulean lake before spilling out towards the South Nahanni
River Valley, hidden behind dry, red foliated peaks. To the south, steep
boulder and talus fields rode to meet a craggy granite ridge. Up valley
and west, glaciers poured around peaks and formed dramatic ice headwalls.
And to the north, the Phoenix, the reason for our trip, looked like a
giant frozen bird; wings spread to blot out the incessant midnight sun
that was to haunt our sleep.
Thanks to a generous grant from the Alpine Club of Canada’s Jen Higgins Memorial Fund, we were in the Ragged Range of the Northwest Territories in an area known as the Vampire Spires, 20 kilometers north of the famed Cirque of the Unclimbables. With 20 days and over 200kg of food and gear, Amelia and I hoped to complete the first female ascent of the Phoenix, either by establishing a new route, or completing a second ascent of one of the several previously climbed routes on the 2500 foot granite face.
The sky was clear, the sun warm, and the mosquitoes
had not emerged from their winter haunts. Joking that this might be our
only way into the “Women of Climbing Calendar”, we took advantage
of our ‘all-female’ expedition status and stripped down for
the sweaty business of humping our loads up the steep boulder fields to
the base of the Phoenix’ imposing face. We established a base camp
nestled under the embrace of a tall boulder that looked comfortingly like
a mini-Rostrum, reminding Amelia and I of our warm and sunny Yosemite
adventures.
During the next few days we completed shuttling our gear to the base of the wall and spent some time spying out a line up the east side of the prominent nose-like arête, which we believed had not been climbed. We fixed two long pitches up the soaking wet and gravel coated slab with minimal gear. Wondering how we were going to drag our two enormous haulbags up the incredibly low angle but featured slab. After the first two slab pitches, the real climbing began.
The wall rose to dizzying heights above us, and skirting around a large patch of hanging snow, I began leading up a shattered band of loose flakes. Our “so far so free” approach came to a screeching halt when I decided that clinging to the loose flakes with my hands was scarier than plugging cams between them, so I began tentatively aiding up the first vertical section. Halfway up the pitch, just where the climbing became more secure, the sky opened up and it began to pour, as it would every afternoon of our 12 day trip. My wet and muddy escapades up the remainder of the pitch taught me my first important lesson of the trip, “where there are plants, there are cracks”, and my nut tool became my best friend. Reaching a sensible place to end the pitch on a tiny ledge, I discovered a fixed pin and old tricam, the first clue that we were on an already climbed route. The lines above us appeared endless, and at this point we were more interested in climbing the wall in whatever style possible, whether by a new route or not. We hadn’t heard of anyone completing a line to the top of the Phoenix on this side of ‘Freebird’, and I was happy to make use of the gear that someone else had left behind. At the top of the pitch, shivering and soaked to the skin, I fixed the lines and we high-tailed it off the face to our cozy basecamp. I reveled in the advantages of siege tactics as I sipped on hot tea and watched the face turn blacker and blacker with streaming water.
As
much as it suited my fancy to run home to the Rostrum boulder whenever
the rain began, the number of ropes we had to fix was limited. The time
had come to commit to the wall. After taking a rest day in the pouring
rain, the sky cleared and it was time to climb. We jugged up 600 feet
of fixed lines with our sleeping bags and some clothes to where our twin
pigs, portaledge and rack waited at the top of the third pitch. Amelia
lead the next pitch, a zigzagging nightmare with mandatory free traverses
of thin and muddy ledges to more moss pulling and aid climbing. The pitch
took over five hours to lead and two hours to haul and left both Amelia
(leading) and me (belaying) wondering if we were in too deep. At this
rate, scaling the 2500 feet of the Phoenix would take at least eight days,
given good weather, and we figured we only had supplies for five. The
dull ache of possible defeat dug into my chest, and to top things off,
the rain began as I was cleaning the pitch, leaving us scrambling to set
up the ledge above our miserable muddy belay ledge.
Three pitches up and my spirits felt below sea level. We huddled in the cramped ledge, trying to keep ourselves, sleeping bags and clothes from touching the wet sides of the fly while we discussed our options. Things had gone surprisingly smoothly up to this point, and Amelia and I, both stubborn as hell, were not dealing well with thoughts of failure. The rain poured all through the night and into the next day until 2:00pm. After rotting in the ledge for 18 hours, trying to sleep and knock my attitude out of its dismal state, the sun finally roused me and I was able to muster up some motivation. “OK, let’s hang our shit out to dry, and I’m leading the next pitch.” Amelia belayed me from inside the ledge, and I started with a short pendulum into a thin seam. The seam turned into a stellar hand crack that was unfortunately jammed full with soil and lovely flowering vegetation. I cleaned placements and aided, thinking wistfully of hand jams. 180 feet up the pitch I reach a small grassy ledge, a good spot to end the pitch… especially because there was a fixed pin and tricam already left there! I was surprised that we were still on the path of a previous party, but pleased that I didn’t have to fix any of our gear if we rapped this line. My spirits elated from the movement and upward progression, I fixed the line and rapped down to help Amelia pack up our gear so we could at least haul the pitch and bivy one pitch higher. Bad choice. As soon as I began hauling, it began raining, and once again we were wet by the time we crawled into the ledge.
Two days, two pitches. Not the most encouraging stats, but I had decided by this point that as long as the climbing could be done safely, we would go until our supplies or our sanity ran out. Whether it was newly adopted attitude, improved weather, or easier climbing, we made great progress over the next few days. The rock became cleaner and the cracks grew wider. A gorgeous dihedral seven pitches up contained a 120 foot section of perfect 4.5 and 5 camalots. Although Amelia and I agreed it would make a stellar free pitch, we only had two cams that fit the crack and neither of us was in the mood to tackle a sharp burly offwidth. I aided the pitch, leapfrogging the gear, glad the placements were perfect and the rock bomber as the rope stretched between my harness and the belay in a continuous line, uninterrupted by clipped gear. I was deliriously happy when the crack thinned to hand sized gear and I was finally able to leave some pro between me and the 1000 feet of air below.
After
three nights on the wall, our route curved left onto the prominent prow
of the Phoenix and intersected Freebird, the first established route on
the wall. We were excited to recognize features in photos kindly supplied
to us by Harrison Schull, one of the first ascentionists of Freebird.
“Smurfagetti Ledge” is a beautiful gravelly ledge situated
right on the nose of the buttress, and was the highest camp for the first
ascentionists. We were thrilled that this was as high as we had to drag
our porky haulbags. The supplies and food and water were undiminished
by our meager appetites and thirst as we climbed, and the pigs did not
seem to be shrinking at all, even after four days on the wall. The only
supply that we seemed to be short on was beer. We had carefully wrapped
a six pack in duct tape and savoured them, but after three nights we had
lovingly sipped away the last of the brew.
Night four on the wall was accompanied by the excitement
of anticipation. Reaching the prow had immediately increased the exposure
of our position. The sheer faces on the west side of the nose yawned below
us, and we were afforded views of the dramatic glaciated terrain to the
west and the gothic shapes of the Vampire Spires to the east. For the
first time on the trip, reaching the summit seemed possible, even probable,
and I was relieved that the top looked so close. Four days of wall life
and taken its toll on my body. My nails were broken down to bloody stubs,
and deep cracks had split several fingertips. One of my shoulders had
cramped up and doses of “vitamin I” accompanied every meal.
As I lay in the portaledge trying to block out the ceaseless light of
the midnight sun, my mind was busy strategizing for the next few days.
Dashing my ambitious hopes for a summit attempt, day five on the wall dawned soggy and grey. A thick blanket of mist filled the valley below, and I wondered if I could stand a day of mist waiting in my increasingly foul-smelling clothes. Luckily the rain ceased, and we began climbing up the beautiful seams of the railroad tracks. On the third pitch above Smurfagetti Ledge, the railroad tracks petered out and the headwall became overhanging. I pendulumed into a squeeze chimney that could not be aided and after clipping every piece of gear and clothing to my last piece, I struggled and writhed slowly upwards. After 30 feet the chimney narrowed into an offwidth, which I was able to free easily with my mountaineering boot-clad feet. The pitch angle decreased and I established a belay on a sloping slab beneath the chimneys leading to the summit.
It was thrilling to see the peaked summit of the
Phoenix so close after all our efforts. Dark clouds rolled overhead and
ominous thunderclaps boomed from the next valley, but ten days accumulated
history of Vampires weather indicated this was yet another passing disturbance.
Another pitch brought us to a straightforward looking chimney leading
to the summit ridge, where it appeared that we could scramble to the summit
proper and add our names to the register left by the Freebird boys, immortalizing
the first female ascent of the Phoenix. It was rumoured that no subsequent
parties had reached the summit proper due to time constraints and foul
weather.
I began climbing the chimney. Just 50 feet off the belay I was stopped dead. Unseen from below, the chimney was choked with snow, and even worse, the snow covered a thick slab of water ice coating the chimneys back and walls. There was nowhere to place gear, and without crampons and tools, I was totally unprepared to tackle this last stretch. Disappointed, I carefully downclimbed to the belay and Amelia and I discussed our options. Some alternate routes to the summit existed, but with our low energy levels and the deteriorating weather, we knew this had been our last chance. We took the token ‘summit shots’ from our highest belay, 13 long pitches off the deck, and began rappelling back to Smurfagetti Ledge, when the thunder and rain began in earnest.
That night as we snoozed in the portaledge, a thundering racket burst through the monotony of wind and water: rockfall! I sat bolt upright, cursing a blue streak and leaning towards the wall side of the ledge, thinking I was about to get pummeled. Through an unzipped triangle at the top of the ledge fly we saw a deluge of rocks and pulverized rock dust pouring through the air, a mere 50 feet from our ledge. Heart racing and hands shaking, I was relieved to be heading down, but the ‘what ifs’ running through my head kept sleep far away as I waited for the dull grey light to turn yellow as the sun rounded the side of the rock face.
Rappelling
off a big wall was a skill Amelia and I had inadvertently learned and
practiced together. When we climbed Zodiac on El Capitan one year before
this trip, we caught up to a woman soloing who had become ill and wasn’t
able to continue. The steepness of the route and the climber’s condition
made it impossible for her to retreat alone, so we decided to abandon
our ascent to retreat with the sick climber. The repeated rappels with
haulbags on the Phoenix made both Amelia and I glad that we had practiced.
With only a few rope fiascoes, we made good time, and were back on terra
firma in the early evening.
Just 24 hours later, we were soaking in the hot tub at Inconnu Lodge, sipping cold beer delivered poolside. Warren LaFave, pilot extraordinaire and owner of the luxurious fishing lodge, had scooped us out of the valley despite horrendous weather, and we were reveling in the hospitality of his wife Anita and the friendly staff at Inconnu Lodge.
It was only after I removed myself from the experience
on the Phoenix that I could appreciate the great adventure it had been
for me. Instead of remembering the 200 feet that remained between us and
the summit, I remember the 2300 feet of climbing and hauling that we did
to get as high as we did. Not bad for a couple of wallflowers.
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