I spent several days hiking over 40 miles to reconnoiter the area. Serpentine glaciers, neon-blue pools, flowers and plants from every color of the rainbow, and huge granite mountains surrounded me. Finally, I decided to attempt a route on a prominent ice-capped tower less than two miles from my basecamp. With a nod toward the rumors of early Viking exploration in the area, I named it the Viking’s Shield. From one angle, the tower reminded me of a proud Viking god defending his keep with a massive shield of granite.
It took five days to shuttle my loads to the base. As I ferried loads, I eyed a couple of prominent crack systems that seemed to offer a passage to the summit. The route looked very uncertain and spicy — it was hard to tell if I was seeing watermarks, dykes, cracks, or all three together. One nice feature of the line, however, was a huge snowy ledge just over halfway up — a convenient high camp and source of water. One of the uncertainties of this type of first ascent is hydration, and how to bring sufficient quantities of water up the climb.
Once I had all my supplies at the base, with enough food and fuel for 20-plus days of climbing, the usual enthusiasm sparked the engine of my soul. I shifted into first gear, locked the hubs, and started the ascent. Thoughts of my future child hung on the rear-view mirror.
After a few hundred feet of easy scrambling up the toe of the apron, I roped up and start belaying. The first few pitches were miserable. It rained on and off all day, every day, enough to keep my gear, clothes, and skin damp. Even though I expected this kind of weather, I had only one extra set of clothes. A burning, itchy rash developed in
my crotch and lasted five very uncomfortable days. Random first-aid-kit supplies proved their worth once again.
The next day, after fixing lines up 1000 low-angle feet of various-sized cracks, wet dihedrals, and slabs, I set up a camp on a rock ledge. I shuttled food, fuel, and gear in four haulbags on my back while jugging the lines, then pulled up my ropes to end the painstaking day. Another session of capsule-style climbing awaited. I carried my lead rope, stacked my tag line in a rope bucket at the anchor, estimated the rack as I looked above, and climbed, cleaning out cracks and hoping for the best. Splitters? Rotten madness? Hanging death-blocks with no explanation of how they were still there? Ah, the variables of mystery — the most important ingredient of any grand adventure.

The higher I got on the wall, the steeper and more demanding the climbing became. The next 800-foot section of rock was damp, semi-protectable, and desperate. Up to this point I had been able to free climb up to 5.10, but had to step into my aiders when wet snow turned the wall into a Slip-n-Slide. I shuttled my haulbags to the huge halfway ledge I’d scoped from the ground. A large patch of old snow and ice dripped a convenient, but very slow, faucet.
To my delight, there had been very little loose rock on the route so far, and I’d only had to place a couple of anchor bolts. Then, the weather cleared. A spell of perfect blue skies, crisp, chilly breezes, and 24-hour daylight offered arduous 18-hour days of climbing, fixing, shuttling loads, immaculate photography and videography, as well as time to dry out from the previous week’s soaking. Baby-wipe showers became as refreshing as a hot shower back home.
The halfway ledge was also a turning point. From here to the top of the tower, a steep headwall loomed above. I felt safer with the steeper wall — if I had taken a big fall on the climbing below, I would have bounced off the lower-angled granite. The first two pitches off the snow-packed ledge were 190-footers of sweet face and crack melodies with small crux sections of desperation, both in terms of difficulty and protection. The longest pitch took over six hours to lead. The most memorable pitch on the headwall was rotten and runout. I desperately hammered Birdbeaks into crunchy flakes, going into sewing-machine mode from whipper-fear a few times. It’s moments of intensity like this that make me feel as though I’m in a fantasy of modern-day dragon slaying — kill or be killed — with the reward of rescuing the sweet maiden in the deep, dark dungeon, or in this case, on the summit.
The 1500-foot headwall ended at an icy rock ridge that led to the summit, several hundred feet away. When I reached the snowy apex of the Viking’s Shield, gray clouds moved in and heavy spindrift tormented me. I sat on a rock plateau on the summit ridge, took photos, and celebrated. Every year I like to add a little flavor to my summits, when I’m fortunate enough to reach them. Besides the traditional naked summit photos, I also celebrate the Chinese astrological symbols as a theme. It was the Year of the Horse, so I put on my horse mask, transformed into a half-horse, half-human beast, and stared into the distant, open ocean of the North Atlantic, 40 miles away.
My thoughts turned to fatherhood. Nothing could take me from the idea that eight months from now we would have a child. Now that I stood on the summit, I was halfway to my goal — I needed to get down. When I returned home, I would have made the true summit.