Our Date with the Demon

October, 2006

     Our goal: Climb the Checkered Demon in a day, a 13100 foot peak in the Eastern Sierra with an interesting feature: two 1000 ft ice couloirs. Weather advisory for the weekend: High winds and a cold front moving in from the East. 

     In September I was surfing the web and came across a trip report on the Checkered Demon. It read that the angle of the ice was pretty mellow, 45 degrees or so with a max of 60 degrees near the top, and it had been recommended to somebody as a first multi-pitch ice climb. I had been doing some light mountaineering for the past few years, rock climbing semi-regularly, and had taken an ice-climbing seminar earlier that spring. I decided that I was ready to step it up and that the Checkered Demon would be that step. I called up Phil, a close friend who is always up for an outing.

     We arrived in Bishop around 5 pm on Friday, and hoped to make camp and crash early. We thought we had pre-arranged plans to pick up some extra gear from a friend in the evening, but due to a miscommunication we had to wait until 11. We tried to grab some Z’s in the car for a few hours with no luck. After picking up the gear, negotiating the long rough road and setting up camp, we crawled into our sleeping bags at 2am Saturday morning. A fallen tree had blocked the road, so we were a few miles short of our destination, miles we would have to make up on foot. And it was cold, even for 8000 feet in October. We woke up late, struggled to get organized and finally started moving at 9am. For the first hour, we followed the dirt road that we had originally hoped to drive, but soon enough we were able to see the Checkered Demon in the distance and what we thought were the two ice chutes that we were looking for. But there was no ice. For a minute we thought we were out of luck. Our cell phones worked and Phil called a friend who had a friend that had been in the area recently. He insisted that the ice was there a week or so ago and that maybe we couldn’t see it yet. We debated on whether or not we were wasting our time, but continued without another break until we reached the base of the Demon.

     We had seen the wrong couloirs and lucky for us (or was it unlucky?) the ice was there. The couloir on the left was a little gentler than the right, and with the name “Kindergarten Couloir”, this would be the one to school us. By the time we ate and organized our gear, it was 3pm. We were worried about how much time we had but there was no way I was going home without sinking my brand new tools into some ice. I made a suggestion, “let’s just get closer and see what it looks like.” This may have been the first time I used that line, a line that has since become known within a small circle of friends, and tends to be the beginning of long and painful days. We decided to see how long it would take to climb the first pitch (rope-length). I climbed up through the mellow entrance to the couloir, set up an anchor using a couple of ice screws and belayed Phil up to me. It took 75 minutes. Slow by ice-climber standards, but this was our first ice climb and we were doing everything by the book and checking it twice.

     We decided to climb a second pitch and that we would decide from there if we wanted to downclimb and go home or continue on. I started up and halfway through the pitch, the ice steepened to the point where climbing down would be a little unnerving (climbing up is almost always easier). I yelled down to Phil, “hey, if I continue to the end of this pitch, I’m going to want to finish the whole thing”, not letting on that my fear of downclimbing would be my primary motivation. I knew what Phil’s reply would be before those words left my mouth. “Okay, let’s do it!” We knew that the couloir we were climbing had 1000 feet of vertical gain, which to us meant 5-6 pitches. We should be able to make it to the top of the ice by dark, and we didn’t mind coming down at night since we were planning to walk down the easy southeast side of the mountain.

     The climbing was very enjoyable. The tools felt good, we were climbing and communicating well, and the ice was solid (this “ice” is not the clear blue water ice you might expect when I say ice, and although that does form here at times, this was neve, basically snow that had melted and refrozen numerous times into an ice-like state). The climbing quickly became routine – thud thud, kick kick, thud thud, kick kick. Put in a screw, clip the rope, thud thud, kick kick. My ice tools weren’t looking so new anymore, yes! The views were improving, I was finding nice big ledges to set up belays, and even when I was belaying I was enjoying watching Phil climb up to me. We were having a blast and looked forward to reaching the summit together. We were climbing so well that we almost didn’t notice that after 4 pitches and 4 hours of climbing, we couldn’t see the top. Surely it should be visible. It was then that we realized our mistake (an even dumber mistake considering we were both engineers). At a consistent 45 degrees and 1000 feet of vertical, well, that works out to be 1600 feet of ice, or 9-10 pitches. Doh! We unshouldered our packs and removed our headlamps, we would be finishing the climb in the dark.

     By the time we hit pitch 6-7, it was pitch black. Although a little creepy, climbing in the dark did have its advantages. It’s usually beneficial to climb ice early, as the quality of it degrades as temperatures rise, but the ice conditions on our climb were improving as temperatures dropped! When we started out, I questioned whether the ice screws would hold, but as it got colder the screw placements felt stronger and stronger. We kept on. Climbing in the dark was a completely different experience than when we started. The views were gone and sound prevailed. The wind gave off a lonely howl, and made me feel like we were a thousand miles from anywhere rather than ten. After I would lead a pitch and set up a belay anchor, I could hardly make out Phil’s headlamp, and sometimes I couldn’t see it at all. The sound of his ice tools striking the ice and the slack building up in the rope was the only indication that he was down there and that he was still climbing. We were knocking down dinner-plate pieces of ice, and hearing them slide down the couloir was intimidating. The climbing itself was not difficult, and there were only a few moves that felt a little sketchy, but the climb started to take on a new form – work. It became important to finish the climb out of worry rather than fun. We had had long days in the mountains together before and were not worried about that, but we were unprepared for a night out. The climb now became uncertain, and it became clear that we were in for a little bit of an epic.

     It got to the point where I didn’t want to climb anymore. I was cold and tired and I couldn’t tell where the top was. Belaying became almost unbearable, sitting in the dark, taking up rope and waiting for my chance to climb again, trying to ignore the sweat freezing my skin. For the 50th time, I fantasized about how much money I could get for my gear on ebay. I felt stupid for actually blowing money on crap like this. For a while, to escape the misery of what our climb had become, I thought about how miserable it was. Most of my friends are probably out drinking and laughing and having a good time, and here we are, in the middle of nowhere by ourselves in the dark, busting our ass for what seemed like a childish dream, to get to the top of some stupid mountain that no one cares about. Hours went by with no change other than it was getting colder, and belays became nothing more than suffering. Eventually Phil was belaying me on my 9th pitch (or was it my 90th?) and the wind above sounded noticeably stronger as if it was whipping over the top of a ridge. I wasn’t sure if I was hallucinating so I didn’t get my hopes up, or at least I told myself I wouldn’t. But my hopes were up. I climbed more deliberately. I looked up often. Things got steeper, steep enough to where resting was hard. The climbing took over again. I thought I could make out a shelf, a flat area above me. The rope got tight, I heard Phil yell. Out of rope and I had to stop. I put in a few screws and belayed Phil up. He agreed that we were near the top and quickly transferred the gear over to me. I climbed the last 50 feet, ignoring the still steepening angle. I climbed over and behind a large mound of ice, and onto flat rock and dirt. I ignored my sense of relief; it wasn’t over yet. Twenty minutes of shivering and listening to the thud of Phil’s axes, we topped out. It was midnight. After 9 straight hours of climbing (an almost embarrassing amount of time that now makes me shudder), we were exhausted. We took some glamour shots and actually entertained the idea of making the easy 500 foot slog to the true summit of the Checkered Demon, but quickly decided against it. There would be nothing to see anyway, and really, we were only halfway done. We packed up the rope and hardware and prepared both physically and mentally for the descent.

Phil on top of the "mound", finished with the ice

    

     All we could feel was the wind blasting our faces and hunger. We powered down a quick bite and started down. We knew that we had to drop down into a valley on the south side of the Checkered Demon, and head NE towards the truck, but other than that it was all indefinite. The start of the descent came easy. Loose gravel that cushioned our steps and an easy downhill grade. We dropped a thousand feet quickly. The gravel turned to dirt and we began to wind our way through rocks and bushes. With visibility of 20 feet or so, routefinding became difficult, and we were afraid of running into a cliff or other obstacle that would force us to climb back up again, as we had no energy to retrace any steps. Even if we did reach the valley floor, the point at which we came down could determine whether we would have an easy walk out or a bushwacking and river crossing nightmare. We were completely beat up. Our legs hurt, our arms hurt, our entire bodies hurt. Even my hands hurt from taking up 1600 feet of rope. The decision to take another break to discuss our options came quickly. It was 3am when we sat down and leaned against a large boulder. As our eyes started to close, the decision was made for us. The best thing to do was to wait for light. I guess it was about 0 degrees, and with no heavy insulation, it was the coldest night I’ve ever had. I must have woken up every 20 minutes or so, too cold to sleep. We hadn’t eaten enough to provide our bodies with fuel to burn, didn’t bring enough clothing, and I couldn’t stop thinking of my sleeping bag that I left in the car. This was only a day-climb after all, so we didn’t need warm and fabulous gear like that. At some point, I pulled the rope out of my pack and used it for a blanket, and snuggled with my pack. At 5:30 am, I woke up for the tenth time in two hours and couldn’t get back to sleep. I was shivering uncontrollably and Phil was doing the same. We knew the sun was going to rise at about 6:30, but we also knew that the coldest time of night is just before sunrise. We were worried that we were getting hypothermic and decided that we had two choices: get close to conserve body heat, or get moving. We stood up, brushed ourselves off, and slowly continued our descent. It was mindless. I tried to avoid talking, it just took too much energy. One foot in front of the other. Soon there was enough light to see the valley below. We switched off our headlamps and took it in. Shortly after, the sun rose and at the time, it was the greatest thing I’d seen in my entire life.
     We continued the descent which would have been easy had we not been so exhausted. Some sketchy stream crossings on icy rocks, a few dreadful ups and downs, and sections of bushwacking, but nothing that would have been too challenging on any other day. It was appetizing to lay down again, this time it would have been warm enough for some decent sleep, but we continued on, trying not to stop. I put my mind elsewhere. There were other things to think about rather than the effort and discomfort associated with each step; a warm bed, my friends and family, and why I had put myself in this situation.
     Almost 24 hours after we started, we found the road that we had walked up. I thought about the tree that had blocked the road on our way in, we should be seeing that soon and if not for that tree, we would have been back to the car by now. What I wouldn't have given to be back this minute. We no longer had any rhythm and stumbled down the road like drunks, soon making it to the tree which of course had now been cut and removed from the road. Figures. We finally made it to the car at 10am, 5 and a half hours after we got up from our dirt-nap, 10 hours after we topped out on the ice, and 25 hours after we had started out. I watched as Phil scrambled around in the lid of his pack for the car key, and wondered what we would do if for some reason the key had been lost, an unjustified fear I always have upon reaching the car after a long climb.
     Are we to be congratulated, or just stupid for completing our first multi-pitch ice climb in the dark? Although at the time I would argue otherwise and now I would argue that we were inexperienced, I’m glad we did it. It was my first epic, it stayed within our control, and remains to be one of the most enduring and therefore memorable 25 hours of my life. It wasn’t a childish dream, and it wasn’t meaningless. Sounds cliché, but I got to know myself, I pushed my limits farther than I ever had before. What was I capable of?