Part 2 (part 1)

2005 – The Decision

In the ice cave we were safe. We could sleep and cook or even go on a fantasy trip with the help of a good book. Nonetheless, we were under great pressure. At the beginning it was only two of us on the mountain, Hans Martin Gцtz and Klaus the photographer were planning to follow three weeks later. So Robert and I lay in our sleeping bags, continuously pondering our possibilities, the strategy and, of course, the dangers. This constellation and the remoteness multiplied the risk. Alone the approach to the start of the climb through a maze of seracs and crevasses implied a fair amount of danger. We didn’t even dare to contemplate the possibility of an accident up on the wall. Prepared to take some risks, the line we drew was definitely on the side of safety.

Now on our third attempt, we had learnt from our previous mistakes. This time we chose the southern approach route via the Estancia Christina. As we knew the way like the back of our hand, we could reach base camp even under unfavourable weather conditions. As we didn’t want to waste our valuable strength, time and gaps of good weather on hauling equipment, five Argentine friends helped us with the transport. This strategy later should prove to be the key to success.

But the most important art was never to lose sight of the tiger. We knew every stone we had stumbled over during the approach as well as almost every hand and foothold on the face. Excluding the last 300 meters, we also knew exactly what was awaiting us. Our biggest fear was the well-known feeling of failing once more and having to suffer through the void that would follow the failure. The likelihood was nowhere else as high as in Patagonia. In our ice cave, we were condemned to idleness, which is always difficult to bear and not without danger. We ruminated our thoughts and feelings, talking about our worries and fears but in the end, each of us had to sort things out for himself. However, these moments are an intrinsic part of every trip that takes you to limits of your mental and physical capabilities and make it also an expedition into the unknown territories of your mind.

Cold Start

Ice Age

The first three pitches were entirely covered by a layer of verglas. So, the following morning, Robert was able to let off steam to his heart’s delight with his ice tools and crampons. It was quite challenging and much harder than the year before. Although it had been Klaus’ job to take photographs, he also had helped us immensely by hauling gear to the start of the climb and up the wall. Contrary to our expectations, we made good progress. On the second day, we had already climbed half of the lower pillar. By evening, we were back in the ice cave and developed a plan that could get us either to the top – or into deep trouble. In the next window of good weather we wanted to reach the ledge under the headwall, bivouac there and on the following day climb until we reached the summit – if need be, with headlamps at night.

The Grand Finale

Three days later, after a short stormy interlude with the psychodrama described in the opening paragraph of this recount, our ascent was like riding a cannonball. Only from a few points dangled the tattered shreds of our old fixed ropes. To lose no time, we jumared even these frayed lines, sometimes consisting of not more than five strands of rope. Although we belayed each other in these antics, at times they proved to be quite trying. I was leading a pitch, hanging by my ascenders from an old fixed rope, oblivious that above at one place the sheeth consisted of nothing but a few threads. I was five meters out from my last shaky nut and the two below it weren’t much better. In slow motion, I pushed the ascender up the worn cord and hardly dared to breathe. Just as I was moving the second jumar, I started to race downward, as if somebody had cut the cables of an elevator. Suddenly, my rapid descent came to a halt. I was hanging 10 meters lower, frantically clasping the ascenders still fixed to the old rope. Not the line itself had broken, but only its cover and I had whizzed down peeling it off until the compressed sheath had brought me to a stop.

Showdown

During the night, clouds started to move in. I began to box against the inside of my bivy bag in the vain hope of warming up. Shortly after five o’clock, Robert made his appearance on the vertical stage for the final act. Only three pitches had to be climbed to reach last year’s highpoint. This section was so overhanging that we were forced to install fixed ropes as we wouldn’t have had a chance of rappelling it otherwise. Laboriously, Robert aided his way up it was much too cold for free climbing. More and more clouds covered the sky, hiding the rising sun.

It took us until eleven o’clock to reach untrodden ground. Standing under the wall a few days ago, I had been very sceptical that we would ever get as high as we had been. But now we were climbing on hand and footholds that never had been touched before. There it was again, this feeling of discovery coupled with the hope that we might reach the summit after all.

I took over the lead und with every pitch the wall became a little less steep. We reached a huge system of cracks and chimneys, completely frozen in the back. Almost every nut and Friend placement had to be painstakingly chopped out of the ice while a deep black cloud was racing towards us from the steppes. Immersed in a surrealistic glow, the silhouettes of Fitz Roy and Cerro Torre were swallowed by the cloudbank. Again Robert took the sharp end of the rope as my free climbing abilities were powerless against the ice covered cracks a few meters below the top. In our single-mindedness, we had lost every sense of time. We saw the summit plateau almost at touching distance, but we also saw the threatening storm in our backs. It was growing colder and darker. The first snowflakes were drifting down as harbingers of the approaching inferno. It was a race against the forces of nature.

At nine in the evening Robert reached the summit plateau. Cloud shreds whirled around its edge. Perhaps everything happened much too fast in the end, perhaps we were too tense with our thoughts already dealing with the imminent rappelling epic. So we just stood there and embraced. That was it. In my wildest dreams I had tried to imagine what this moment would feel like. Every time tears had welled up. But reality was different. For three years we had been obsessed by this magic line. It had determined our lives. Perhaps in this moment of success we were nothing but very relieved.

We had been granted a dream that we could live. The impressions and experiences will stay with us forever. This is the real wealth life has to offer.