by Ryan McElroy ’16
“ICE!” Zach’s voice echoes through the falling snow from above, louder than the wind whipping through the surrounding spruce and the trucks passing by on route 73 far below. It cuts across the frozen Chapel Pond, which I had just crossed less than an hour ago. I hear it, but nothing registers in my brain. My gaze is ever upwards, neck craning to spot the orange blob that marked the other end of my rope. Just barely making out the moving speck of a man, my eyes shift focus to the dancing shapes falling from the sky. Like pieces of glass, these shards spin and flip, clatter and sing, bounce down, down, down… Oh shit. That’s what he meant – I suddenly drop my head and curl inwards after being struck by a flying slab. No way I’m forgetting that one! Now I know: ice is the name of the game. This season’s first day of climbing was off to a slippery start.
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I guess I should have had some idea of what I was getting myself into when I emailed Zach (‘14.5) over winter break just to see if by any chance he knew how I could get a hold of some boots and crampons. I wanted to make the best of what was forecast to be miserable skiing weather in Vermont. Maybe I would head out to the glistening ice. I had only been twice the previous winter. Derek Doucet, the college’s outdoor programs director, and Scott Barnicle, a student dean had taken me. And now Zach was down for more. “How about Tuesday when we get back?” Great! But why are these guys so willing?
Last year, Zach Perzan hired me to work at the school’s climbing wall. I had met Zach early my freshman year at a Geology Department pizza lunch. His large shoulders and burley frame were softened by his calm voice and dimpled smile. We soon became friends, and I learned he was one the most patient teachers I’ve ever had. He could have been in his thirties, speaking so eloquently, knowing so much, and climbing so well. Yet, he was only a year older than me. The story he told me on the way to the ice, the one about fishing for crawdads, keeping them in his apartment sink, and coming home to find one on the carpet, pincers raised, looking up at him, reminds me he’s not all grown up. He’s still a kid just like me.
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Or maybe not. I feel like a modified kid. Like a kid who lost his essential fearlessness. Now, taking that first step is the hardest. Putting off an assignment, postponing a phone call, or stumbling to let someone know how you truly feel about them – it’s always so damn scary. Zach continues ascending, now beyond my line of sight. And then there are those other fears. Smashing in my teeth. Eyeballs. Wolves. Abandonment. Addiction. Living an incomplete life. The list lengthens at a frightening pace while I stand belaying Zach at Crystal Ice Tower. He’s gotta be there soon. The anxiety is closer to freezing me than the single digit temperatures. I wait and wait.
“Ryan, off belay!” That’s my signal. He’s made it up. It’s all me now. If I can just manage to breathe… Here goes.
My mind is blank. I reach. Swing. Swing. Step. I’m up. Steel robo-talons pierce the ice and miraculously hold me. Swing right. Check the feet. Packs look like dots below. Kick. Test weight. Breathe. Swing left. Shattered ice. Swing again. Dinner plates. Swing and… perfect. Hero Ice. You can’t plan for it, but when you sink it, there is nothing better.
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In the car on the way out, Zach prepped me on basic ice science. We search for that “plastic-y, ductile ice.” It’s an ice climber’s nirvana. Forever swingin, listening, feeling, but rarely attaining. Most of the time it’s too brittle or too wet.
The variability of each flow excites Zach. Even if he’s been to a spot already, “it will always be different.” Getting out to new ice each time is crucial to keeping it exciting. Keeping a keen eye on the weather and on sites like NEice.com is key.
Zach began swinging tools in high school. He was fortunate to have a few generous teachers who took him out and taught him the basics. His technique improved over multiple trips to Kinsman Notch in New Hampshire. Soon, he and his mentors, were confident in his ability to lead routes, placing all his own protection as he climbed first from the bottom. He still keeps in touch with the guys who shared it with him. And now he passes on his passion, glad to have better access to Vermont and New York ice than he did when he was living in Boston.
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Our day out ended just as it began: dark skies, temperatures just pushing double digits, and turkey sandwiches on my mind. But my body ached more than it did at 6:25 am. That’s for darn sure. “Classic rookie mistakes,” Zach explained on the drive home from a full day in the Adirondacks. “You gotta have your systems, man. At least two sandwiches. Make ‘em before breakfast. Three gloves. Each with a purpose. Oh yeah, and you can’t leave your boots in the trunk – there’s no heat back there!” I certainly made the mistakes, and my lack of systems was laughable, yet I had managed to keep my feet nice and toasty. I brought my boots with me in the front seat. At least I had that going for me.
•• ◆ ••
I feel fortunate to have been so warmly welcomed into a community of ice climbers. Reflecting on my time, I catch glimpses of an unwritten future. Perhaps it will involve ice flows, mountaineering trips out west, and laughing off the dark times, as my mentors have done before me? Is this my future?
Possibly. Possibly not. I will forever be awe of the extreme. Rigid peaks, ancient rock, gnarled trees, and violent storms – they captivate me. But the people testing themselves out there are even more interesting. Their pushing of physical, mental, and emotional limits fascinates me. Why do they do it? What is the point? Should I bother trying? Are they worthy role models? As long as I continue to meet these people and seek answers to these questions, it’s likely my story will read similar to those of the mentors I’ve met. But nothing is written in stone. I proceed with caution as on ice, aware that my words may melt, freeze, flow, or shatter at any moment.
(an excerpt, read the full piece here: http://sites.middlebury.edu/adventure2015/student-work/ryan-mcelroy/ )