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Approaching the base of the North Face |
I try and stay warm in my old, loftless sleeping bag wearing every stitch of clothing I have, including my storm gear and two hats. I dream, awake and asleep, of being warm and comfortable back in Colorado with my wonderful bride. Fantasy and harsh, cold reality could hardly be more diametrically opposed. Gusts batter our aerie.
Inside my bivi sack in the dark I fight a constant war to keep my nose lined up with the two inch air hole I keep in the zipper. No stars are visible the few times I risk a glance outside the sack.
At dawn it's still cold, gusty, cloudy and definitely not a climbing day. There's nothing to do except wait. We don't say much all day, and only occasionally make a comment like, "There's a patch of blue behind FitzRoy." We daydream and sleep away the day, accompanied by the sound of the wind.
All we have left is two candy bars apiece for today, and a cliff bar each and a packet of instant mashed potatoes to share tomorrow morning. We'll either have to go up or fail again tomorrow.
The second night is much, much colder. A sheen of ice forms inside my sleeping bag. By dawn the wind isn't so bad, but our hands and feet would frostbite if we tried rock climbing. We eat the last of our food and drink the hot water left over from the potato flakes. After 36 hours without once losing contact with my sleeping pad we break the bivi and descend. We rig rappels down 300 meters of steep alpine granite and down-climb 1,300 meters of moderate alpine terrain to base camp.
Jim says as we descend, "We are coming back to bag this route. That's the best alpine granite I've been on in 30 years."
I'm just exhausted and all I want is a hot pot of tea and a letter from my wife.
By early afternoon when we get to our tent, the storm's breaking. We'll be going up again at first light tomorrow. I feel like a yo-yo.
Where are you going?
What do you want to do?
