Stikine X

X

The ridge appeared to be a little more straightforward above the gendarme. There was often enough rock to climb around the snow, but still enough snow to be jealous of attempts lucky enough to find the Thumb in true rock climbing conditions. The circuitous climbing was slow going, but at least we were moving.

After a few pitches of climbing up, down, and sideways to escape snow, I found myself moving more directly on the steep upper slope of the northwest face to avoid an obvious ice-smeared crack I couldn't bring myself to jam. With my two gloved hands underclinging a dripping flake and one heel hooked around an arete, the entirely natural fear of falling into well over a vertical mile of space finally wormed its way into my brain, just in time for my other boot, edged desperately on drying lichen, to slip. Of course I was run-out.

How did I manage to hold on? It was certainly the most scared I've ever been climbing, and by the time I built an anchor higher up, I was mentally drained. We climbed one more beautiful pitch to the rappel notch, a point we approximated to be 100 vertical feet and 300 horizontal feet from the summit, and the most convenient place for a party to *spoiler alert* bail. It was around noon, and the clouds that had seemed to extend into eternity below the ice cap all day now had companions drifting above our heads. We were moving too slowly to have a chance of scrambling up and down the easy, but slippery terrain to the summit and return to camp in time for Wally to get us out before the weather hit.