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Higher Education in Maine: Reporter Shannon Bryan heads to Newry for a Lesson in Ice Climbing

February 26, 2010 - NEWRY - I've seen icicles plummet from third-story gutters, losing their glassy grip against gravity with a long fall and a glistening explosion.


I've felt an ice patch grab my feet out from under me, nature's prankster sending my backside to the ground with a breath-expelling jolt.


Ice was, in my opinion, a harbinger of tailbone hurt. A temporary cold-weather fixture, no more reliable than a cloud of smoke.


The thought of climbing some up-ended glacier was out of the question. It was unfathomable. It was inevitable.


I stood last week in the wooded confines of Grafton Notch State Park in Newry, dwarfed by an expanse of frozen water caught in its slow-motion tumble from a precipice high above.


The late-morning sun amplified its rumpled surface, revealing hues of blue and yellow within the shimmering white. It made for quite the photograph for a passing hiker. But the harness cinched tight around my waist and legs reminded me: I wasn't a passing hiker.


As if I needed reminding.


I had been led here by mountain guide Jon Tierney, director and owner of Acadia Mountain Guides Climbing School. Based out of Mount Desert Island, Acadia Mountain Guides offers year-round climbing at an array of Maine locations, including Acadia National Park, Baxter State Park, Camden and Grafton Notch. While this location required a short hike into the woods (with a very perceptible incline), it's also possible to scout locations right on a roadside.


Also there for an ice-climbing introduction was Carolyn Sprague of Concord, N.H. While Tierney set to unloading ropes and carabiners, axes and other implements of ice ascent, Sprague and I peered out from under our helmets to marvel at the view. And I began cracking bad jokes in an effort to temper my nerves.


The rope came our way first. Tierney showed us how to tie a figure-eight knot and feed the rope through the loops at our waists. We followed his lead, fishing the rope through our respective belay devices, slipping the carabiner through and locking the contraption onto our harnesses.


With we novices appropriately geared (we'd latched crampons onto our boots during the hike in) and the belay rope ready on the ice, Tierney asked, ''Who wants to go first?''


I do.


SWINGING KICK-START


Sprague was set up to belay -- standing off to the side rather than right below me to avoid falling bits of ice that I was likely to send her way.


I had one ax, strapped to my right wrist to prevent an accidental dropping. Next to me, Tierney demonstrated a proper ax swing, holding the handle near the bottom and swinging it over his shoulder. His ax dove confidently into the ice. I tried to mimic him, but the nose of my tool struck the surface awkwardly, sending ice chips scattering. I swung again, this time with more effort, and the tool planted. I gave it a tug, testing its stability. My ice-climbing confidence was tightly packed into a few centimeters at the end of a metal blade.


Quite used to kicking things (door jams, myself), digging my toes in proved an easier feat. I worked to keep my heels down to prevent calf strain and ensure the toe spikes were able to dig in. With a swing and two steps, I was off the ground.


This particular patch of ice wasn't overwhelmingly steep and was, in parts, topped with powdery snow. Where it leveled in spots, I could stand upright and take a few steps. I could've turned to take in the view too, but looking back or pausing would've compelled me to consider where I was, what I was doing. And that would've led to a sudden appreciation not for scenic ice falls or tree-filled valleys, but of gravity and cold feet.


My ax found ice again. Each swing landed with greater confidence. My legs grew secure in their cramponed boots. I did my best to remember to keep my stance wide and to reach and land the ax over my head.


After a handful of minutes I found myself greeted with the top of the rope, standing upright on a ledge with my ax raised over my head. I let go a proud ''woo-hoo,'' and it flew out over the trees below.


Sprague prepared to belay me down and I sat back into my harness, my feet flat against the ice wall. Slowly I was lowered, chatting the whole way as though I scaled iced-over inclines all the time.


I was surprised by my own relative comfort. And I was glad that vertigo kept a distance and that my nerves were keeping cool in front of everyone.


After an exchange of ropes and devices, Sprague took to the ice while I belayed. She took a few practice swings with her ax and Tierney noted, as he had to me earlier, that it's best to land the ax in a concave place. When the blade chops into a bump of ice, it shatters, making stability less likely.


After a few tentative swings and kicks, Sprague found a rhythm, moving up, up, up. Another successful scaling.


EASY DOES IT


Tierney turned his attention to a steeper section of the ice formation. Unlike its snow-sprinkled cousin, this area was all ice. It dropped down in a sheer for a few feet, then fell into solid rolling bubbles, like a pot of water frozen mid-boil.


First on again, Tierney reminded me to keep simplicity in mind. Make it easy on yourself, he said. Look for flat places to put your feet. Look for the easiest route.


Easiest route. Not the first thing that comes to mind in a situation like this. An ax in each hand, anxiety swelling, the air silent except for the scraping of my boots on the frozen floor, I decided the easiest route was straight back to the car. But that wouldn't make for a very good story.


So up I began again, this time with two leashless axes. I worried that one might slip and tumble, greeting a cohort below in a painful way. Or at the very least, leaving me stranded. Tierney said leashless axes are growing in popularity and that I wasn't all that likely to drop one. But he and Sprague stood to the side anyway.


The first ax reeled back and dove in. The second ax followed. And kick by kick and swing by swing, I climbed higher. I paid attention to where my ax was landing. I tried not to think about anything else.


Tierney called out from below, encouraging me to take a break and ease my grip on the ax here and there to avoid tiring out too quickly. So I paused. Not for long. But it was just long enough for devilish thoughts to enter.


I suddenly realized my precarious location and how distant solid ground seemed. My legs, either fatigued or nervous or both, shook under me. My body mirrored the ice in front of it -- frozen, still and unmoving. ''I think yes, I think this is as far as I'm going to go,'' I yelled out. A half-hour spent trying seemed sufficient.


''Try going just a little higher,'' Tierney urged, probably used to such novice panics.


I swung each ax another time. My legs climbed a little higher. But trepidation followed, and again I stopped. ''No, I'm definitely ready to come down now.''



And so down I went.


I glanced back up to where fear had stalled me. It wasn't all that high.


Sprague, however, wasn't as easily deterred. She struggled too, in some of the same spots. Her boot slipping once, she let out a courteous, ''Oops.'' But up she continued to go, rethinking her position a few times, Tierney making suggestions on where to put one foot or the other.


After 30 minutes, she was darn near the top, far past where I had stopped. ''I'm ready to come down,'' she called. We told her she was so close and to keep going. But when the brain and body decide enough's enough, it's hard to convince them otherwise.


After I'd belayed her safely down, we looked to where she'd been, so near the top. I was impressed and told her so. Tierney said I could very well head up again to see if I too could reach that far. I chuckled and politely declined.


Maybe I hadn't ascended all the way up this polar wall. But I'd wielded axes and jagged boots. I'd dug my toes into frozen water and climbed skyward.


I'd spent five hours getting personal with a land-locked iceberg that most passers-by would simply photograph.


by Shannon Bryan, February 21, 2010, Portland Press Herald


Lakes:
Regions: Sebago


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