Ice Climbing in Ouray

Aloft in a frozen world

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My movements, meanwhile, are like bad advertising copy. I madly hack my way up the ice, clanking my tools into the slab and hoisting myself up with arm strength. My method works — for about 30 feet. After that my forearms burn with fatigue; my knees tremble uncontrollably, and my brain locks up in terror when I realize where I am. I remain motionless for ten minutes. Somewhere in the distance, I hear O'Donnell barking a series of commands: "Relax! Breathe! Trust your feet!" I manage, somehow, to muscle my way to the top and then rappel down. That's when O'Donnell takes my axes away.

The ax-less drill is brutal, like trying to paddle a canoe with no paddle. I grab. I fall. I jam my fists deep into cataracts in the slab, and my knuckles become raw nubs as ice saturates my gloves. But I learn a critical lesson — footwork is everything. When O'Donnell finally returns my tools, the route seems almost horizontal. I begin to move methodically, searching for tiny ridges to sink my crampons into and balancing my weight carefully over my feet before swinging. More relaxed, I start arching my back and hurling my torso into the swings, a huge arm-saver.

We spend the next day on more technical maneuvers that O'Donnell insists are necessary for negotiating Bridal Veil Falls and Camp Bird — gargantuan, world-class routes nearby for more seasoned climbers. He demonstrates "stemming," kicking a leg out wide to create more options for balanced movement. He does the "monkey hang," suspending his body weight from one arm while searching for solid foot placement. Then, grinning, O'Donnell points out my final exam — a dramatic formation he calls a "tight chimney with hanging daggers."

My effort isn't pretty. I squeeze 20 feet up a cavelike enclosure, stem out to a stalactite, then monkey hang out over the top lip. O'Donnell winces, but approves. Before rappelling down, I rest for a moment at the screw that holds our rope. The Uncompahgre River gurgles below, and the afternoon sun lingers above the mountains behind Ouray. At that epiphanous moment atop the world, realizing I'm not going to die, it hits me: Snowshoeing is for wimps. I'd rather monkey hang any day.