Continued from Blog #20: Switzerland…of America (Part I)
“The summit is what drives us, but the climb itself is what matters.” -Conrad Anker, former The North Face climbing team leader and three-time Everest summiteer.
“Nothing like this.” I nervously replied. The question, asked by my guide, was whether I had climbing experience or not. In fact I had already graduated from several rock climbing and rappelling schools. Back home I had dangled myself off a 200-foot cliff, ascended multi-pitch routes, and bouldered without the safety a rope. But this was different. This was frozen water, not stone. The reality hit me as I stood in the equipment room of the adventure outfitter I contracted in Ouray to lead me on a 3-day ice climbing excursion. I was being fitted for a $600 pair of alpine mountaineering boots that looked and felt like they belonged on Mount Everest. Next was a set of $250 crampons; sharp, spikey footwear attachments for gripping ice but look more like bear traps. And of course, the $600 set of climbing tools; hatchet-like devices that belong in a horror movie yet are really used for pulling oneself up an ice wall. “What have I gotten myself into?” I thought silently.
Ouray winters are very singular and calculable. The demographic is mostly comprised of athletic 30-something year olds who spend sunrise to sunset climbing ice in the canyons. The entire congregation then migrates directly back to the nearest source of food and adult beverages, of which there are plenty despite how tiny the town is, to rehash harrowing tales of death-defying climbing routes that sound suspiciously like the plot of the movie Cliffhanger. Alas, beer and onion rings don’t have anti-inflammatory properties, and the soreness of climbing begins as the stars come out. But the night sky is shrouded – is it smoke? Or perhaps fog? No! Of course, the memory flickers, it’s steam! “The hot springs!” someone shouts, “Let’s go!”
It’s 19 degrees Fahrenheit. The city sidewalks are glazed in ice. Coordination is already impaired. Professional tip: You can’t just walk two blocks down the road in a bathing suit and flip-flops in these conditions. The result is a bizarre yet hilarious spectacle of wardrobes consisting mainly of a beanie, hiking boots, and hotel towel. Notice I didn’t say pants. “We just have to make it to the water!” a teeth-chattering voice reassures the group. Take my word, it goes against every instinct to hop in a full-size swimming pool in sub-freezing outside temperatures. Now imagine the brain’s confusion when the water is so hot it causes pain. Ah, but it quickly becomes soothing to the tired joints. The rising steam induces lethargy like the scent of a warm candle. All is good.
Drowsy and shriveled like a prune, I slipped and slid my way along the empty streets back towards my hotel. It was late at night and too cold for anybody to be outside. The calming silence was once or twice broken by the muffled voices emanating from a tavern door. Snow had slowly started to fall without so much as a breeze. I took a moment to appreciate the peaceful beauty. What would an actual Swiss village be like by comparison?
Climbers find adrenaline, sure. More importantly, we find bravery and confidence. We find our limits. We find ways to conquer our fears. We find what cannot be found in a cubicle or on a couch. At the conclusion of the trip I waited in the tiny airport’s endless prescreening line consisting mostly of snow skiers from the nearby resort town of Telluride. I had found myself in Ouray. I wonder if any of them had the same experience.
The Dark Passport 