Learning the Ropes
By JOSH HOWELL '95
idday on June 6 ( our third day on the Baird Glacier ( the three of us stood slumped on our monstrous packs, disconsolately munching on cheese and bagels and gazing back on our tracks. A half-mile to the northwest, across a jumbled expanse of ice riddled with sinkholes and crevasses, we could still see the spot where we had camped the night before. Four hours of start-and-stop, meandering for a route had brought us only this far, and ahead of us was more of the same ( much more by our map.
For the first two days after landing in Thomas Bay we had traveled steadily, if slowly, up the glacier over bare ice. The slow, constant rain of the lower elevations had melted away all the snow, saturated the glacier with water and made for straightforward, unroped travel ( step after crunching step on wet, rotten ice. At 2,500 feet, however, the air temperature had dropped enough to permit a grim toehold. The snow sealed up crevasses and depressions in the ice and leveled the landscape with a thin, brittle crust. At first we welcomed the snow as a much-needed cushion between the ice and our bruised, blistered feet. But the snow proved a fickle ally; you could never step on it without fear that it would give way, dropping you like a letter into an icy slot. As we loaded up on sugar and fat and discussed route options, there was a conspicuous hole near us where I had just plunged through the snow to my armpits in a crevasse.
The crevasse was not very deep, nor was it wide enough to swallow any more than a person's legs. Even without the ropes, this tiny crevasse would have been hard-pressed to do me much damage. Still, there is something disconcerting about feeling the ground open up beneath your feet with 90 pounds strapped to your back.
"It's OK. Just help me get my pack off," I called to Kishen Mangat, who was next in line on the rope. As he approached, our third teammate, Bo Parsons, followed at a distance. Bo's job was to keep the rope taunt and free of slack. If anything else happened ( if Kishen joined me in the crevasse ( Bo's weight at the end of the rope would double as an anchor.
But nothing happened. Kishen pulled my pack out of the slot and I struggled to my feet. Later, during lunch, the three of us joked about my little fall and the excitement that had lasted only a split second.
"Our first crevasse rescue," said Bo. "Now we're experienced."
Still, that split second was enough to remind us of the seriousness of our situation and the narrow margin for mistakes. This was Alaska, after all, and the Stikine Icecap, where we were headed, was one of the wettest, stormiest places on the continent. If someone got hurt, it wouldn't be as simple s sending for a ranger in a user-friendly national park.
We finished lunch, shouldered our packs and struck out again. Bo led this time, probing ahead with his poles, sticking to bare ice whenever possible and yelling "Watch me!" over his shoulder whenever he came upon a dubious snow bridge. The going was slow and tedious. Our ropes dragged and caught in the soft snow as we zigzagged across the glacier. Topping a small rise, we saw the glacier ahead of us broaden and level ( not a single gully or divot in sight, just a smooth, creamy, endless snow field. We had reached fern line, the blessed elevation where more snow falls than can melt away.
After a water break, we set out again, traveling in a straight line for the first time that day. At 5 p.m. with the sun still high overhead, we labored to the top of a short headwall, dropped our jaws and then our packs. Straight ahead of us, perhaps three miles, were the peaks we had read and talked and dreamed about for months ( dark granite monoliths with names like Burkett Needle, Cat's Ears, and Witch's Cauldron. Above it all, its summit shrouded in mist, loomed our objective: Devil's Thumb.
In the tent, we wondered about two other Colorado College students, friends of ours attempting to traverse some high peaks in the Alaska range. On the trip north, we had heard news that some climbers had died on Mt. McKinley. Later, we heard rumors that a storm had dumped seven feet of snow in that region over two days. Were our friends safe? Like us, this was their first expedition in Alaska and it was at once thrilling and nerve-wracking to think of them up there, alone in the high country. Wondering about them led us to thoughts of our parents, who no doubt worried about us. We resolved ourselves to greater safety, a renewed vigilance.
Occasionally, while we lay in our sleeping bags, we talked about Ritt. Peter Rittenhouse Kellogg '90 was a climber we had never met. An Outward Bound instructor and climbing guide, he was a hero of sorts to us, a figure glimpsed in breathtaking photographs in Climbing magazine. One of the brightest lights in the College's outdoor community, Ritt was also, tragically, among the briefest. In 1992, he was killed when an avalanche swept him and his two partners off the east face of Alaska's Mt. Foraker.
Family and friends had struggled with a shared sense of responsibility to somehow commemorate Ritt's visionary spirit. "We knew we had to do something," said Mike Alkaitis '90. "Finally, Mr. Kellogg just asked Ritt's friends what we would like to do and we said we would like to set up something to support CC students on long, wilderness expeditions."
From there, Alkaitis said Peter Kellogg Sr. soon established the Ritt Kellogg Memorial Fund. With 90 percent of its interest dedicated to the support of safe, 15 day or longer wilderness expeditions, the Ritt Fund offers a unique opportunity to dedicated members of the College's growing outdoor community.
School-sanctioned outdoor recreation is nothing new at the College. Each year, the Outdoor Recreation Club leads dozens of trips into the back country, teaching neophytes and veterans alike everything from snow-shoeing to rock climbing. The Ritt Fund, however, does not finance guided trips. Money from the fund allows experienced parties to create their own expeditions, taking skills honed in Colorado to locales only dreamed of, or read about in magazines.
Last December, for the first time, the Ritt Fund Committee ( composed of a representative from the Leisure Program, a student ORC member and five Ritt Fund stewards ( began accepting proposals. Fifteen were submitted and four accepted funding: our trip to Devil's Thumb, the Tri-Pyramid traverse in the Alaska Range, a climbing expedition in the Bugaboos of British Columbia and a canoe trip in North Saskatchewan.
For us, Ritt funding meant we could go on our dream expedition with greater safety and efficiency. The $1,000 we received enabled us to rent a radio for weather reports and emergency situations. It also paid for the air taxi that dropped us off in Thomas Bay. Later, once we had reached our base camp 20 miles and 6,000 vertical feet up the glacier, it dropped the bulk of our rations and rock climbing gear.
Eventually, after dwelling for weeks in that strange, raw world of ice and stone, all thoughts of proposals and funding left us. Our talk and our every action focused on the climb and beckoning summit. One night, after a warm, clear day had left the peak shimmering in melted water, we left base camp and climbed in crampons 1,500 feet up a steep snow field to an airy perch where we spent the night in our bivy sacks. That night, we were entranced by the twinkling lights of far-away Petersburg. It was strange to think of people snug in the homes, watching television or playing cards.
The next morning, we awoke to more blue skies. Encouraged by the seeming proximity of the summit, we decided to cut weight and leave behind our stove and sleeping bag. Fourteen hours later, with the hardest climbing still to come and the temperature dropping, we realized our mistake. Short on food and out of water, we began to rappel. Our spirits sank. We had failed.
In retrospect, back in the lower 48, I find that failure has no place in the equation. I am left with a sense of wondrous accomplishment at having traveled, safely and self-reliantly, for weeks in a wild an inhospitable place. On a broader scale, I know that none of our tribulations, revelations, mistakes and innovations were for naught. Upon our return, we were required, like all Ritt Fund recipients, to submit a report and present an all-campus slide show. With our experience to learn from, future Ritt Fund expeditions will be safer and more efficient.
Ever onward, ever upward ( can there be a more fitting tribute to a visionary climber?
Josh Howell '95 is a freelance writer, living in Santa Fe, N.M.