The Ascent of PJ Marshall Page 4

  “And you should have a buddy along for safety.”

  A pause.

  “Huh?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  PJ finished his snow cone and put his cup in his pack.

  “So why’s Gannett so special? Aren’t there others you want to climb?”

  Butch pointed east between the Sentinels.

  “We’re about twenty miles from the car, right?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s the same in every direction. Longest approach of any high point in the country.”

  “That’s pretty cool. I don’t know about fifteen times, but still…pretty cool.”

  “And it’s getting harder to find a blank spot on the map like this. One that isn’t boxed in or paved over.”

  PJ motioned along the groove worn in the snow on the summit ridge.

  “Looks like it still gets plenty of traffic.”

  “That’s okay, I’m not the jealous type. I’m willing to share. A little.” Butch motioned to the east with his chin, where the moon had lifted free of the horizon. “Show’s on.”

  PJ raised his camera and struggled to frame the perfect shot, eventually lowering it in disappointment.

  “Stupid rectangles. How about a group shot?”

  PJ waved Butch up onto the boulder as he picked up his ice axe. Serving double duty as a monopod, it had a camera mount secured to its head with duct tape. PJ hopped off the boulder and crossed the summit to a small patch of snow on its far side, where he screwed his camera onto the mount and pushed the axe’s shaft into the snow. He knelt down, composing the shot.

  “Okay, stay right there,” he said. “I’ll sit on your left, and the moon’ll be right between us.”

  Butch held up his left hand, palm up, looking behind him.

  “Do you want me to pretend I’m holding it?”

  Butch moved his hand up and down, eying the angles, looking for the right position. He smiled. PJ stared back, shaking his head.

  “You’re such a dork,” he said, returning to his work. “Okay, I think we’re set. Nothing cheesy, now. No rabbit ears, funny faces, nothing. Just smile.”

  PJ started the timer and then scrambled up the boulder and sat beside his father. Both men were beaming, their arms around each other’s shoulders as the shutter tripped with a decisive crack in the cool, thin air.

  “That’s a keeper,” Butch said, getting to his feet. He pulled a silver tube from the summit cairn as PJ unscrewed his camera from the mount.

  “What’s that?”

  “The register. We gotta leave some words of wisdom before we head down.”

  Butch unscrewed the end cap and pulled out a notebook. He handed it to PJ.

  “I’ve done this before. Pour your heart out.”

  ***

  July 14.

  Butch and PJ—father and son, Gannett Peak ambassadors.

  A beautiful day. This was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but so worth it. We’ve been up here half an hour, and I’m still breathless. It’s hard to take it all in—it’ll take more than one trip, I guess. We’ll be back. Someone’s gotta check the ice.

  Thanks, Dad.

  ***

  PJ’s crampons crunched to a halt in the wet, pebbly crust of Gooseneck Glacier. He turned around, motioning to the peaks behind them.

  “One last shot.”

  Butch stopped and glanced back. The sun was hovering low over the cirque, throwing intricate shadows on the cliffs and talus. The surface of the glacier glittered.

  “Nice.”

  PJ stabbed his axe into the snow and adjusted the camera’s settings with blind confidence, staring at the scene.

  “I know. Who would have thought that rocks and water could be so—?”

  The snow gave under PJ’s feet and he sank up to his chest, wedged into the soft crust by his pack, now riding up behind him. Clutching the ice axe in his right hand, PJ held the camera over his head with his left, his split second of panic frozen in time. Butch tightened the rope on PJ’s harness, laughing.

  “Good save. The mark of a true photographer.”

  Pulling the axe to his chest, PJ threw his elbows over its shaft and continued to prep the camera. The rope, vibrating under the tension, created a leading line into the scene, with Butch framed by the towering cirque in the background. He took the shot.

  “I think I’ll call that one On The Brink Of Death.”

  Butch laughed.

  “Very dramatic.”

  Kicking and punching some wiggle room in his hole, PJ tried to climb out, his efforts thwarted by exhaustion and loose snow.

  “This is getting really old.”

  “All part of the fun,” Butch said. “You want some help?”

  PJ made another unsuccessful attempt. Panting, he raised his arms, letting them fall onto the snow.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Butch hesitated briefly and then crept forward, testing the snow between them with his axe. PJ took the camera from around his neck and reached back, slipping it into the top of his pack.

  Butch froze, his head cocked, listening.

  “What? You change your mind?” PJ asked.

  A muffled explosion shook the glacier as the ice under PJ’s feet collapsed, throwing him forward onto the snow. He tried to stand, pushing with his hands and kicking blindly behind him. Too soft to support PJ’s weight, the snow drained into the crevasse beneath him, pulling him deeper as he struggled. He pushed against the ice on the rim of the crevasse with his feet, trying to wedge himself across the opening, grasping for the axe. Butch was sitting in the snow, his heels planted, quickly taking up the slack in the rope.

  “Hang on, partner!”

  A second explosion plunged the remains of the snow bridge into the crevasse, dropping PJ onto his chest on the rim. He threw his arms forward, clawing at the snow and taking precarious hold of the ice axe. His feet slipped off the opposite side and struck the wall beneath him, the momentum sending him sliding on his chest back toward the edge. Kicking madly against the ice below, his crampons glanced off the wall as he fumbled with the axe, fighting to turn its teeth into the crumbled surface. Pinned under his arms, it skittered across the ice, useless. He looked up in time to see Butch pulling up the slack in the rope, his eyes wide, body shaking.

  Then he fell.

  “Dad!”

  PJ clawed at the walls, his hands burning with icy friction. The ice axe bounced off his shoulder and clattered into the darkness. The rope went taut, jerking him to a violent, but momentary halt before going slack again and sending him into another free fall. The light faded and the echo of his own panicked breathing closed in as his left foot jammed between the walls of the crevasse. The momentum carried PJ down onto his side, bending his ankle with a crunch. His head struck the ice as he landed, wedged in the crevasse, his right arm dangling into cold darkness below. Muted ringing filled his ears as snow and ice rained down, glistening in the dim light filtering from above. The rope tightened, and PJ gasped in stunned agony, his breath dark against the afternoon sky. Butch’s voice echoed down.

  “PJ! Are you all right?”

  He grabbed the rope and began to pull himself up, the effort stressing his ankle. Gritting his teeth, PJ began to hyperventilate, and he lowered himself back onto his side.

  “Ahh! Shit! I’m just great!”

  “Is anything broken?”

  PJ lifted his head and looked down, trying to assess the damage, cursing through his breath, fighting to get it under control. His eyes hadn’t fully adjusted, and he lay back down.

  “PJ?”

  “Just a second!”

  “Okay, take your time. Deep breaths, PJ.”

  PJ took the headlamp from his pocket and strapped it on his head, his quickly numbing fingers fumbling on the switch. He rolled on his back against the wall, creating room to pull his right arm out from under him. Shaking the blood back into his fingers, he stared at the blue, rectan
gular opening above. The light fell off quickly after entering the crevasse, illuminating only the first few feet of vertical ice. Pulling his gloves from his jacket pocket, he lifted his head, directing the beam from his lamp down to his feet.

  His boot was wedged across the bottom of the crevasse—folded severely at the toes, the teeth of his crampon sunk into the ice. PJ tried to wiggle his foot but it was stuck fast, and the ensuing pain left him writhing and cursing through clenched teeth, near to fainting. By degrees, he managed to breathe through the worst of it and was pulling up his pants leg as his father called down to him.

  “You still with me, partner?”

  “Yeah,” PJ said, struggling to manipulate his gloves over his rapidly numbing fingers.

  “My foot’s—jammed. It—I don’t think it’s broken.”

  “Okay. Did you hit your head?”

  PJ shook his head, grimacing. He shut his eyes.

  “Yeah. I think I’m okay, though.”

  “Okay. I’m going to ease off the rope and set some anchors up here. You all right on your own for a minute?”

  “Just a second.”

  PJ grabbed the rope with both hands and pulled himself into a squat, wedging himself against the wall with his knees, grunting and breathing through the pain.

  “Okay, go.”

  The rope went slack. It swung in tight circles as echoes of tapping and dangling hardware filtered down.

  “Can you get your foot loose, PJ?”

  “Guess I have to, don’t I?”

  An uneasy chuckle from above.

  “Unless you want to leave it there.”

  PJ shut his eyes and held a deep breath, gripping his foot with both hands. Under a barrage of expletives, he twisted and pulled, but his boot was stuck fast, the metal teeth of his crampons sunk deep into the ice. He let go and pressed his hands against the opposite wall, his breathing again out of control.

  “Wow,” Butch said. “Sounds like a big owie.”

  PJ tossed his head back, laughing through the pain. He began to cough, his breath swirling in the cone of light from his headlamp.

  “Try to relax, partner. Did you get it loose?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, give it another shot. Take the crampon off if you can.”

  PJ stared at his foot, breathing in deep gasps. He took off his gloves, muttering.

  “Christ, PJ.” His fingers throbbed as he worked the buckle, chilled quickly by the cold, humid air licking up through the crack below. As the pressure from the strap released, the bend in his toes relaxed. He loosened the strap and slipped on his gloves. “Holy shit is it cold in here!”

  “I’ll bet,” Butch said, grunting through his tasks. “Probably because of all the ice.”

  Lifting his foot out of the crampon, PJ lowered it through the crack, letting it hang free.

  “Yeah, probably. Okay, I’m out.”

  “How is it?”

  “Hurts like hell.”

  “Can you move it?”

  Cringing, PJ wiggled his dangling foot.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. How are you feeling?”

  “Dandy.”

  “What are we looking at down there?”

  PJ turned his light to the walls above him. Smooth and rounded and overhanging on both sides, the crevasse was like the inside of an immense, icy football. It was the same in both directions to the limits of his lamp.

  Shit.

  “Uh, I’m down about ten feet or so. What I’m looking at is not good. I don’t think I can climb out of here.”

  “You have your ice axe?”

  PJ looked down, checking the crack along the floor. The wedged crampon, still bent in half, glittered over the void. He pulled it loose and clipped it to his harness.

  “Uh, about that. No, I don’t.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Well, it’s uh, gone.”

  “My favorite axe,” Butch said, “The one with the camera mount.”

  “Uh…yeah.” PJ grimaced as he wiggled his dangling foot. More dull ache than shooting pain now. He leaned back against the wall. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you a new one. I’ll even throw in a roll of duct tape.”

  “Okay, so you’re ten feet down with one good foot and no ice axe, and you don’t think there’s any way to climb out. Anything else?”

  PJ hesitated.

  “No, I think that’s it.” He adjusted his stance and rested his head on the top of his pack, staring at the mouth of the crevasse. The rope climbed into the brilliant glare at the surface and disappeared over the edge, linking him to his forty-six year old father. “What do I do?”

  “How’s your other foot?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Can you get to your webbing?”

  PJ unbuckled the hip belt of his pack and leaned forward, pressing his cheek against the ice. He wiggled his right arm free of his shoulder strap.

  “Yeah, I can get it.”

  He swung his pack in front of him and unclipped the webbing.

  “You’ve got the four foot loop, right?” Butch asked.

  “Yeah, looks like it.”

  “You know how to tie a prusik knot?”

  “I don’t know. Did you show me that one?”

  “No.”

  “Then no.”

  “All right, I’ll talk you through it. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  PJ slid his arm back into the pack strap and buckled the belt.

  “Okay.”

  The rope tightened on PJ’s harness.

  “So, what you’re going to do is tie the webbing around the rope and make an ascender. Okay?”

  “Okay. Ascending sounds great.”

  “So if you take the…uh, hang on. Let me think a second.”

  “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”

  “Oh, come on PJ. When have I ever let you down?”

  A pause.

  “Sorry, bad choice of words. I just need to think of the best way to explain this.”

  “Okay. Nice save.”

  “Okay, hold it out behind the rope so you have an end of the loop in each hand. Like you’re holding a steering wheel.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, take the loop in your left hand and come around the rope and pass it through the loop in your right.”

  “Okay, done.”

  “Keep the loop in your right hand where it is and wrap the other one all the way around the rope again and back through.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  “Now switch the loops in your right hand and pull the knot tight around the rope.”

  “With the loop I’ve been wrapping around?”

  “Yeah. It should look like a barrel when you’re done.”

  PJ pulled the knot tight. He inspected it, nodding with tentative approval.

  “Yeah, it does. Looks right.”

  “Do the two lines come out from the center of the knot?”

  “Of course not. You think I’m some sort of amateur?”

  “They’re supposed to.”

  “Of course they’re supposed to.”

  “You’ll have to loosen it a little to adjust it.”

  PJ made the correction.

  “Okay.”

  “Is it tight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right, now put some weight on it, see if it holds.”

  Grabbing the loop with both hands, he hung from the rope. It held.

  “Feels right,” Butch said. “Did it slip at all?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, now try to slide the knot up the rope.”

  PJ clutched the knot in his fist and pushed it up the rope.

  “Okay, it slides.”

  “Good. I’m going to feed you a little rope, okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Slide your knot up a little and then re-clip your harness into the loop.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. That’s it. Your first prusik knot.”

>   Faint applause from above.

  “Now what?”

  “You need to set another one below that for your foot.”

  PJ inspected the small collection of hardware on his harness and turned his head to the side, staring at the crack in the floor of the crevasse, deep in thought. He looked up.

  “Okay, but I don’t—”

  Tied to the sounding string, Butch’s webbing was already halfway to the bottom of the crevasse.

  “Never mind,” PJ said.

  “And this time, I want you to do it one handed.”

  “Yeah, okay. No problem.” PJ untied the loop from the string and set to work, the end of the rope clamped between his knees. Throbbing in his wet gloves, his fingers had fallen victim to his icy confines. His head and foot pulsed in identical rhythm. The headlamp dimmed, but PJ brought it back to life with a tap of his hand. “It’s still really cold in here.”

  “You’re not doing a one handed prusik, are you?”

  “Uh…yeah. Of course I am.” He finished the knot and performed all the checks. “Okay, I’m done. My foot goes in here now?”

  “Yeah. You can put your weight on the sling if you need to. Slide the bottom knot against the top one first.”

  PJ slid his back up the wall and lifted his foot out of the gap in the ice. He sat in his harness, the rope stretching with a creak.

  “You all right, dad?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Waves of pain shot up his leg as PJ struggled to lift his foot into the loop. He let it hang, breathing through.

  “This might take a while. It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

  “You’re putting your good foot in the loop, right?”

  PJ glanced up at the empty sky.

  “No. Sorry. What am I—?”

  “It’s okay. You need to stand in the bottom loop with your good foot. I should have told you that.”

  PJ put his foot into the sling, tucking the webbing between the teeth of his crampon.

  “Much easier.”

  “Make sure you don’t cut the webbing with your crampon, though.”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “All right, your weight’s on the sling?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And your knee’s bent? On your good leg?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, now hold onto the rope and stand up.”

  Shaking and twisting at the end of the rope, PJ stood in the sling, awkward, but on his way up. He laughed.