Chair Peak Solo

I hesitate to write about soloing the North Face of Chair Peak because it is the most important climb of my life. It has taught me a great deal about climbing and the climbing community. It has taught me that action is more important than posturing. Climbing itself is about action. Life is also about action. Anything else is just window dressing. But, I have to write about it. I hesitate also because any type of writing about climbing is usually fraught with misunderstanding, and elicits questions about motives from the audience. I will try to avoid this by writing this for myself primarily, and for the public secondarily. It seems that it is a rare breed indeed that can write about their own climbs at any length without garnering condemnation from the hoards of arm-chair climbers.

This climb started out as any other. I woke up with the urge to do something. When this happens I usually go climb something. I gathered my gear and headed for the hills. When I got to the parking lot I found it empty except for one car. I gathered my gear together and suited up. One car pulled in when I was gearing up, but then took off as I left the parking lot. The air was crisp and a slight wind stole my warmth. The cat track was icy and it took some effort to not slide backwards on the inclines. I made steady progress, not pushing hard but not holding back either. It was sunny but not warm. My muscles felt fresh, my lungs clear, my mind sharp.

I got to Source Lake and spotted a group of three high on the slope I would soon climb. I told myself not to chase them but the athlete in me sped up. The going was slow as I battled up the slope, sliding down periodically on the icy crust. I spent the next hour following a skin track up through trees up a slope I know intimately. This was to be my third time up the North Face of Chair Peak. It was to be my fifth time to the summit. And it would be my second solo of the mountain. But, it would be my first solo of the mountain in winter.

I got to the basin below Chair Peak. I stabbed my skis and poles into the snow and continued up the skin track on foot. At the notch I geared up. The perpetual wind was there this time, like every other time I've climbed Chair Peak in winter. I felt reassured in my knowledge of the mountain. I know Chair Peak more than any other mountain. I've done more routes on it than any other mountain that I can think of. I looked up at the peak- the ice looked thin. I decided to gear up and take it one step at a time, like any solo climb.

At the base of the technical climb I turned on my helmet camera and proceeded up the ice and snow. I was able to turn my mind off and focus on the technical aspects of the climb. I stabbed my picks into the snow and ice. My body felt strong. When soloing, you constantly think about falling. I stopped after the first pitch to rest, then proceeded up the route. The climbing felt easy. After the first pitch the climbing eases off. I was relieved. I pull up to the top of the route and feel the warmth of the sun. I focus on my breathing and jog up to the summit. I spend a few minutes sitting down and taking pictures. I decided to go down quickly because it was late in the day. I down-climbed quickly and efficiently. At the rap station I decide to down-climb as the route looks easy. It turns out to be. At the base of the rap route I decide to glissade. I keep my crampons on, knowing that they could snag and I could break an ankle or leg. At first the glissading is easy. Then I feel the snow become hard and I snag a crampon on the ice and my right leg flies outward. I know instantly that something is wrong. I breath in and out, thinking of my plan. I take off my crampons. I try to walk and it hurts. I try crawling. I finally make it to my skis after crawling, glissading and walking the small distance.

I take my skins off my skis and secure my tools and crampons to my pack. I know this is going to be an all-out self-rescue. I put on my skis. I ski down and realize I can't really go left because of the weight I have to put on my right leg. So, I do what I have to which is basically going right. I end up at a steep section that would be easy with two good legs. But, given the circumstance, I take off my skis and walk down. At this point I discover that I can ride fakie easily and thereby traverse the slope back and forth. I made much better time this way. This was important because the light was fading. At Source Lake I pull out my headlamp. It's dead. I cuss to myself for forgetting to replace the batteries but thank God for the full moon. I ski out, cringing at every undulation. I make it back to the car, grab a beer and some Tylenol, and then head to the ED via my house. I'm thankful it wasn't worse when I hear from the ED doc that I broke my fibula.

Epilogue: I write this three days after the injury. I am propped up on the couch, weaning myself off of pain medication. I have an appointment with an orthopod tomorrow.

Post-Script- It is now four weeks from the day of the injury. I have skied twice since injuring myself. My leg feels strong but hurts about 1/10 occasionally. I have been rock climbing twice as well since the injury.