Grand Armet (2752 m) – East
Face, Cros de Quinchol (1600m, WI 3+)
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| The upper half of the route. |
Last Monday I felt the urge for a big mission, alone.
School was happening that day, not to mention the usual voices of hesitation and caution resonating in my head. I decided to listen to the voice of going, to tap into the kind of energy that trumps 4 hours of sleep, tired legs, and reasonable thoughts about what one should be doing that day.
The result was one of my more ambitious days in the
mountains to date. The climb begins a 5-minute walk from the road and doesn’t
stop for over 5,000 vertical feet, essentially following a single weakness that
runs top to bottom. My trip began with surreal scratching through mist and
frozen turf, hoping desperately that I had picked the right gully and that the
mountain would let me keep going up. My uncertainty gradually burned off with
the morning clouds, and I found myself kicking and swinging up the endless
couloir leading directly to the summit.
The descent involved 2000’ or so of steep snow down-climbing
off the backside of the summit, followed by a trudge up to a col in order
to get back to the eastern side of the mountain, and finally a long, heinous
descending traverse through 50°, cliff-ridden schwack to get back
to the road. The last couple hours of the descent were illuminated by headlamp and the mantra, "it ain't over till it's over." Bonked and postholing on my way
to the top of the pass during hour 10 or so, I found myself singing John
Prine’s words on repeat,
“I been thinking lately about the people I
meet
The carwash on the corner and the hole in
the street
The way my ankles hurt with shoes on my
feet
And I'm wondering if I'm gonna see
tomorrow.
Father forgive us for
what we must do, you forgive us
and we’ll forgive you
We’ll forgive each other
until we both turn blue
Then we’ll whistle and
go fishin’ in the ever…”
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| On the summit ridge looking south toward the Dévoluy and the Pic de Bure (2708m). |
I_realized that even glued to the slopes of an obscure
mountain that almost nobody I know has heard of, I’m still not alone. Hillary
called to tell me that she loved me and to coach me through the night
routefinding. I could feel my parents, not wanting me to be exposed to such
risk but letting me go with understanding and grace. I thought about how important the time was this past summer when my brother, myself and
Mom and Dad were in the same place for a few days. I thought about good times
in Keene Valley just a couple months ago over Christmas and New Years, and how
much those friends mean to me. I wish I didn’t need to be so far out there to fully appreciate the importance of such moments and people, but there it is.
As usual the exploit itself didn’t change a thing in my
world. People asked why I had missed school the following day, and my story
began and ended with, “J’étais en montagne, tout s’est bien passé.” A week and
a half later, I find myself still thinking about the energy that total
commitment enables. Such uncompromising momentum opens up endless possibilities
in the mountains and elsewhere, but needs to be handled with care. I need to
learn more about when to drop the clutch, with whom, and to what end. My safety
and that of my mountain partners depends on this learning. In the meantime I
want to express my gratitude to those who keep a light on back home and whose
love and patience ensures that I’m never really alone out there.
I were both very excited to show her a window into our lives here (though I think my excitement trumped Brads...). During her all too brief visit, we enjoyed foliage which reportedly rivaled Vermont's this year, finally checked out the Musée de Grenoble for a casual viewing of
