Open Bivy - METAMORPHOSIS

Epic (n.): a long poem, typically one derived from ancient oral tradition, narrating the deeds and adventures of heroic or legendary figures, or the history of a nation.

Alaska, 1991: a ptarmigan spoke to me from 90 feet up Middle Triple Peak (8,835 feet), in the Kichatna Range. Seth Shaw and I had just ticked the second ascent of the venerable East Buttress (VI 5.9 A3; 3,300 feet) in grotesque conditions. As we made the last of 20-some raps to the glacier, the Fates dished out more adventure: the snow dollop we stood on gave way while we built our station. Boom! The rope, a 100-meter 9mm cord, whipped through Seth’s device. He hadn’t yet clipped the belay and fell 90 feet to the glacier, pulling the rope with him. Tethered to a couple of pieces of gear with no rope, I feared Seth had fallen to his death. It was then that the ptarmigan spoke…except its usual churgle-churgle came out sounding like English, like a distant, incomprehensible conversation at the end of a hall. I strained my ears. Was the ptarmigan saying all would be OK, or warning of utter doom?

The classic, proto epic is The Iliad and its sequel, The Odyssey, both sung by ancient Greece’s Homer in the eighth century BC. Later, in Hollywood, the “epic” came to define a genre that spooled on for hours, with chiseled heroes racing around in chariots. The common theme: adventure…and returning to tell about it. For us climbers, the unknown, the dangerous, and the mysterious draw us to the map’s edges. We dread the danger, yet deep inside want the soul-baring, character-defining experience.

To bare our souls, Seth and I, climbing together 10 years, started our Kichatna odyssey simply enough: keen to add the “sit start” to this classic alpine rock route first climbed in 1977 by Mike Graber, Alan Long, Andy Embick, and George Schunk, we would ski the 60 miles in from Rainy Pass, pulling kiddy sleds laden with two weeks of food, double cams, and a handful of pins. The early spring snow lent itself perfectly to 20-mile days. Snow bridges led over Happy River, and the brown bears lay dormant — or so we hoped. As with any incipient epic, the weather was clear and dry at basecamp, around 5,000 feet on the Sunshine Glacier, luring us deeper into the maw of the granitic Kichatnas.

Lewis and Clark’s traverse of North America some 200 years ago, though not a climbing journey, has all the components of a Greek epic: separation from civilization, crossing a threshold, transformative experiences, and re-incorporation into society. Despite fierce predators, uncharted land, extreme weather, malnutrition, and indigenous people both hostile and welcoming, no one died and the 33-member party returned with rich, heroic tales.