Big Nip: A Tale Of Ice Axes and Obsession
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| I finally made it up the left side of Nip on Easter |
Just 20 miles north
of Gillette, Wyoming, past the coalmines along on the road to Montana there
lies a rugged landscape of sagebrush, scrub pine, miniature canyons and
towering buttes.
Since I’ve moved west, The Burnt Hollow
Land Management Area has become my favorite place to hike, play and practice
climbing. From the high places
here, it is possible to look 75 miles to the west out to the 10,000-foot wall
that is the Big Horn Range. To the east stand the Bear Lodge Mountains of
eastern Wyoming’s Black Hills, and the Missouri Buttes, that keep their odd
cousin, Devils Tower, just out of line of sight.
I have already lost
track of how many times I have gone to the buttes for wandering. When I go, I
bring equipment: my ice axes and crampons, even now when the snow and ice has
melted off.
The reason for the
gear is that the buttes are crumbly, treacherous, at times slippery and
defiantly steep. It is an
excellent workout and a thrill to take on a sharp pitch that would have been
impossible without equipment.
One of the most
challenging pitches out there is the tall, nipple-like protrusion atop a tall
butte that my friends and I have called, uh, Big Nip.
The pinnacle’s near
vertical sides and unlikely summit drew me as the Empire State Building drew
King Kong.
I visited and
revisited the buttes, tackled different mud slides and crawled through dirt to
reach different high points in the area. All the while, I was looking over my
shoulder at the big nipple made of clay and sandstone. That one’s next, I thought.
Never mind that the climbing would be
very, very steep — an ascent over a surface that is at times rocklike and in
other places is as crumbly as dried-up cow crap. Never mind that even King Kong
fell from his place, back to the streets of New York.
In the not unlikely scenario that I lost
my grip, I would go down, down tumbley-wumbly for a couple hundred feet — limbs
head and body getting battered and bashed all helter-skelter within the
maelstrom of kicked up rock and other debris.
This knowledge
didn’t stop me from trying the climb on January 1, 2012. What better way to
start a new year than a fairly dangerous climb followed by a chance to stand
self-important over God’s creation?
My buddy came too. I
wore the crampons, he took the ice-axe and we made our way up the steep
knife-edge ridge that leads to the base of Nip. Because neither of us had the
full set of gear, it was a tough struggle, and we both helped each other out.
There was a dirt
ledge at the bottom of Nip where we could both rest. My friend didn’t feel
inclined to try to tackle Nip. Can’t blame him. The steep rise, the long drop
beneath our feet certainly gave me pause. Still, I figured that with crampons
and an ice axe, I might be able to hack it.
I walked out along
a dirt ledge, a few hundred feet of drop beneath my spiked feet. As I started
up, I sensed that my grip on the surface in front of me was tenuous at best.
Debris kicked up by my axe blows scurried down the slope below me, accelerated,
bounced in the air as they made their plunge down the pitch. Watching their
suicidal progress did little to soothe my anxious mind. The pinnacle of Nip was
perhaps only 30 feet overhead. The way down was much further.
Even the mightiest
blows with my axes afforded me scant millimeters of grip on the pitch.
In case you were
wondering, no I wasn’t roped in or anything smart like that. Even those first
cautious steps up the pitch sent a wash of adrenaline flowing over my nerves. I
felt the shaking in my calves as they tried to keep the crampon’s spikes inside
of the tiny notches they had made in the stone-like surface.
I looked up and
swallowed. I just had to endure
five minutes of terror and I could stand up there, be king of the world, beat
my chest etc., etc.
That terror, of
course, would only make the experience all the more gratifying. Mine would be
the exultation of one who stands atop an obscure pinnacle that few people have
noticed or even cared about. Then I could work on the oft overlooked but
nonetheless important getting down part
of the operation.
But as I clung, trembling against
the bosom of the butte, I thought,
Not this time.
My friend who came
with me up this far, told me it might not be the best idea for me to break a
lot of bones and leave him with the responsibility of getting me out of there.
I could see his point. It wasn’t worth it.
We headed back to
the car in the twilight, drove home in the dark. Maybe Nip was just a bit out
of my league. Maybe I needed to back off, get a little common sense.
Maybe I needed to
get a second ice axe.
*****************
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| Didn't try to climb this side. Puts the beast in perspective though. |
I signed for the
package and carried the box up to my living room.
With little
ceremony, I used my old ice axe to rip through the cardboard. Inside was the
sleek, silver Black Diamond ice axe from EMS. It was lighter than my other axe,
a little shorter too. Still, it was an instrument capable of putting any
Trotsky in his place and also worthy of an ascent up mighty Wyoming buttes.
After I got the
second axe, I didn’t try Big Nip again right away. I took a couple more weekend
trips to the buttes, hacking and stabbing my way up to different high points.
On other trips I went to the Big Horn Mountains where there was still ice and
snow aplenty. I made attempts on Loaf Mountain (11,667 feet) and Ant Hill
(10,971), but due to deep drifts, neither climb was a success.
Strangely enough,
in that cold high-altitude land of snow and rocks, I didn’t find any places
where I needed an axe or crampons. It seemed like I was destined to use my axes
on hills of dirt, not ice.
So it was that on
Easter afternoon, I was back at the buttes, marching Custer-like across the
sage. I decided that I didn’t have to
climb Big Nip, if it still seemed too dangerous I could still do the right
thing and turn back. But I knew I would climb the butte at least as high as the
base of the formation. Then, with axes and crampons, I would test the ground
once more and see if I couldn’t probe out a successful ascent.
I started climbing
the Butte without crampons. With two axes, I found I could use my arms almost
as much as my feet to pull myself up the slope.
Oh, how sweet the
satisfaction was in finding steep, formerly unclimbable ledges, sinking the
points in and hoisting myself skyward through pure force of will.
Occasionally, an
axe would slip and I would start to slide. I was always able plant a knee
before the catastrophe and swing desperately until I hit something more solid.
Clods of dirt rained down beneath my feet.
It took me maybe 20
minutes to climb up to the bottom of Big Nip, the final protrusion, the Eiger
of Burnt Hollow, a test of skill and will.
Some of the feeling
of righteous certainty that I had felt when I was lower melted off as I looked
at the smooth, defiant formation, crowned by cracked and treacherous mud. No
fooling this time. I strapped the crampons to the bottom of my boots and
cinched them as tight as they would go. Then, like a panicky Wall Street exec
on a window ledge, I began to ease myself around the edge of dirt below the
Nip, above the long tumble down the butte.
I faced the Nip,
swung with the new axe. The claw of metal clanged against the hardscrabble and
bounced back in futility. Pieces of shale and specks of grit flew at my eyes. I
bashed again, dislodging pieces rock, fucking up the proud and ancient contours
of the butte. Its consistency was about what you would expect from dried clay
before it went in the kiln.
Finally, I achieved
some kind of tenuous grip in the surface. I swung with the other axe, whacked
it into some tiny groove in the slope. My knuckles bashed into the surface too
and spilled a couple of red droplets into the hardpan.
I set the crampons
in to the point where I was satisfied that I could pull an axe out, then struck
again, higher up the slope. I had to hit it several times before I could be
satisfied that it would actually hold my weight —remember you have to come
back down this way too — kicked out again
with a crampon, pulled myself up. If I could repeat this process about ten
times, I could hit the summit.
I felt that shaky
treachery creeping back into my muscles, the uncertainty and the tightening. It
wasn’t worth it. Not this way. I turned back.
Kicking and hacking
my way down even that short distance kept my nerves on edge. Every blow of the
crampons, crushed more shale, sent a stream of dirt tumbling down to the abyss.
I got back to the ledge and let myself breathe for a few minutes. Maybe I could
find a new pitch that would be easier.
I circled the base,
and found another route. This way was steeper, but I felt like I could get
better grip with the sharp implements.
The purchase was
oh-so-slightly better and after several tenuous whacks into shale and clay, I
was able to haul myself up a bit. But up at about 15 feet above the base, the
wall became rock solid again. Part
of me wondered if the miniscule hold that I had gained in the wall overhead
could hold my weight. I was terrified to try.
Instead, I kicked
and hacked my way down again, usually taking about three to five strikes with
axe or crampon until I felt sure that a hold was good enough.
Back on solid
ground, I put my feet back on solid ground, slumped over my axes as my heart
raced. A small pile of dislodged clay and shattered rock lay between my boots.
It felt like quitting time again.
It was discouraging
to turn back yet again after failing Ant Hill and Loaf Mountain in the Big
Horns. But, then maybe the experience was a wakeup call that I needed to start
working on more achievable goals.
But here’s the
thing: when I went back around the Nip, I looked at the first route, still
scarred from my ice axe blows and desperate kicks from my crampons. Now I was
warmed up and knew what to expect. Did I want to try it again?
I don’t want to. I want to.
I turned to the
wall again, points out ready to climb. It didn’t even feel like a decision.
This time, my blows
against the hardscrabble felt more certain. There was more power in my legs.
The fear that held me back was focused now, directed upwards. I got to the
place where I had turned around before and kept going. Up higher, the pitch became crumby. The
axe points wouldn’t hold, they just dislodged softballs of dirt down the side.
I used the bottoms of the axes to brace myself to wriggle upwards.
There was nothing
to grab onto at the top, so I just belly flopped onto it, wriggled the final
inches onto level ground.
I rose to my feet
and looked west. In the far-away, the mighty Big Horn Mountains rose out from
the earth, their snowy flanks cast in shadow. The nearby buttes glowed golden
in the late-day sun.
I gasped the dry air into my lungs, felt my heart racing in my chest. Gradually, it slowed.
*****************
The way down was
scary, not terrifying. I looked at
the flank where I had come before and saw the axe and crampon marks I had left
behind. Maybe the next rain would take it out. But I felt that I had violated
the Leave No Trace ethos, the idea that visitors to a wilderness should leave
it exactly the same as what it looked like when they came.
If more people did
what I did, the destruction would be unforgivable.
From now on, I’m
going to leave Nip alone so there won’t be more erosion. One climb had been
plenty.
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| I drove this in backwards so that I would be able to grab it on the descent |
