How to not climb Ames Ice Hose
in Four Easy Steps

January 8^th & 9^th, 2000

First and foremost: I'm not an ice climber. I'm a dork with too much expensive ice gear. I need help remembering on my crampons, placing ice screws, and keeping warm. My hands and toes constantly freeze. Every time I go ice climbing I wonder why I did.

Now let's get another thing straight: following or seconding on ice is not ice climbing. Ice climbing, for me at least, at Grade 5 and below is not about pulling a difficult move. No move in Grade V ice is very hard to do. Heck, as long as the tool sticks each handhold is exactly the same. Hence, following isn't really a big achievement. The problem is stringing all the moves together on lead without killing yourself. This is non-trivial. Leading on ice is more difficult and dangerous than leading on rock, but following on ice is much easier than following on rock. Curious sport, this ice climbing.

Ice climbing is an incredibly miserable pursuit. Ice bashes you in the head constantly, or, on ice too plastic to fracture, then water runs down your gloves, up your sleeve, and generally soaks you. The ice is always in some cold, dark place that never sees the sun or at the bottom of a big avalanche bowl or both. You stand around belaying in deep snow or screwed to an icicle hundreds of feet off the ground. You've got so many layers of clothes on to keep from freezing to death that you can't hardly move and certainly can't manipulate the rope and gear without pulling off your mittens and freezing your hands. Of course under these conditions you have to manipulate even more gear than with rock climbing! This is the irony of ice climbing. Everything becomes more difficult right at the worst time. You have to climb with double ropes, in general, because of the possibility of cutting one of the ropes with your tools (mainly a danger for the second, of course). Then, you have to protect yourself with ice screws which are easy to put in on low angle ice where you don't need them and extremely difficult to put in on high angle ice where they are essential.

Each pick placement mashes your hands up against the ice. Now, how can your hands keep from freezing while gripping tools so hard that all the blood vacates from your fingers and then are pressed up against the ice? Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know, don't grip the tools so tight. Wear Dachstein mitts. Use chemical heaters. Swing bent shaft tools. Blah, blah, blah. It doesn't work worth a damn.

Once your hands freeze they are useless until they defrost in an extremely painful process and that has caused born again Christians to swear like sailors. Falling, for the leader - everything else is just playing with yourself, is out of the question. You're covered with metal spikes. Any contact with anything during the fall will result in serious injury. If the climb is remote, injuries are immediately life threatening.

So, why would I ever do something so masochistic? Because it is currently very trendy? No, it's because I aspire to long, mixed routes on big mountains. There are some that say this type of climbing is even more miserable. They are wrong, of course. Hence, I was talked into a weekend of ice climbing so far from my house that I'd spend more time driving than sleeping and climbing combined. Yet another reason to love ice climbing...

Hardly Manson planned this outing. He booked four nights at the Victorian Inn in Ouray. I could only go for two days so I talked Wayne Trzyna into joining me on the trip. Wayne lives in Fort Collins so the amount of driving for him was three hours worse than for me yet he was still interested. Wayne is a road tripper extraordinaire! He drives amazing amounts of mileage in pursuit of thick ice, good fishing, and untracked powder. His truck averages 30,000 per year despite living only six miles from work. Hence, we took my dilapidated Saab for this trip. Wayne struggled with the idiosyncrasies of a non-functional turbocharger and a clutch with 200,000 miles on it. He was used to machines in top condition. I hoped he didn't have as high a standard for his climbing partners...

Wayne:

I think this whole trip was a coup.  Bill had dragged me up to Vail Pass the weekend before only to inform me after we arrived that he'd forgotten his crampons.  Then he suggested I join him the following weekend in Ouray.  There I was, psyched to climb, and frustrated.  What could I do? I had to go.  Then, all through the days before the trip I kept wondering, "What did I commit to?  A two-day trip to Ouray?  That's insane.  Well, if we're going to drive that far, we'd better at least climb something substantial."

(editors note: Wayne was dragged up to Vail Pass for ice climbing AND a fun ski tour. Reports indicate he did have fun on the ski tour.)

Bill:

Wayne is a very good, very experienced ice climber. He leads Grade 6 water ice and has done most of the classic climbs in Colorado and Wyoming and a number in Canada. We obviously weren't a great match. Our technical disparity was huge, but Wayne didn't seem to mind. He'd lead everything. Wayne was sort of like Layton Kor on ice. He'd do long, serious routes with neophytes. My primary objective would be to break trail on the approaches, remove the screws, and try not to whine too much.

We drove the six hours down to Ouray on Friday night, January 7th, arriving at about 11:30 p.m. We were sharing a room with Hardly's other friends: Steve and Bill. These were very nice, friendly guys. We introduced ourselves (I had met only Steve before and everyone was new to Wayne) and went to bed with alarms set for 6 a.m. As soon as the alarm went off, Bill (not me) gets up and takes a shower! "What the heck is going on here?" I thought. Getting up and showing before climbing? Then Wayne gets up, shaves, combs his hair, etc. "This is getting ridiculous! Are we climbing or going to brunch?" I brushed my teeth and pulled on my clothes without another glance in the mirror.

We met the others at the "European Breakfast" downstairs. This was a mob scene. Every room in the hotel was filled and it seemed as if most were ice climbers. I had never seen so many ice climbers in the same room. Everyone was competing for use of the single toaster and meager breakfast. It reminded me of getting up in the climbing huts in the Alps (except that breakfast was so incredibly late in the morning for alpine climbing and even late for the longer ice climbs). I saw a number of friends from Boulder and even said hello to the prolific climbing photographer, Greg Epperson.

Wayne had been talking about a climb over near Telluride called Ames Ice Hose. I had heard of this climb, of course. It was a Colorado classic. Wayne thinks the Ice Hose and Bridal Veil  Falls are the two most classic ice routes in the state. The guidebook describes it as "the classic hard route in the area." This is a 600 foot, continuously vertical or near vertical frozen waterfall. It can be done in four long pitches, but usually a short middle pitch is done to move up the belay. The first pitch is normally notoriously thin and frequently out of condition. The second pitch climbs up into a narrow chimney and the upper pitches are on a huge sheet of ice that is probably 60-70 feet wide.  The first two pitches are rated WI5 and the last two WI 4-5.  The normal descent is to rappel the route because of gear left at the base, but it is also possible to walk-off this climb.

So, how would one NOT climb Ames Ice Hose?

Step One: Get a late start

We didn't leave the breakfast area until 7:30 a.m. and Wayne decided to show me around the Ouray area a bit and to see what climbs were in. I got my first glance at the amazing Ice Park in the Box Canyon. Wall to wall ice! Then we went up and checked out Gravity's Rainbow. Wayne had done this Grade V climb twice before and swore he'd never come back. The climb faces south and can be rotten, thin, and dangerous, especially when the sun is out. Today it looked pretty fat, two climbers were already on it, and we were still in the car.  Wayne and I were both turned off by the zoo in Ouray and decided to head over to Telluride to check out Ames Ice Hose and climb some of the less committing and easier ice near there.

Step Two: Climb behind another party

The drive over to Telluride and then on to Ames went easily and in about an hour. We got a tremendous view of the Ice Hose from the highway. It looked so intimidating. It was so big and steep, but it appeared to be fat (thick, consistent ice). Upon closer inspection, we noticed two climbers at the top of the first pitch. Wayne said it would be insane to follow someone up this climb because ice-fall funnels straight down the route.  Then he said the conditions looked easier than he had ever seen before. Wayne has climbed the route once and backed off it several times because of thin conditions so he's quite familiar with the route. In the end, Wayne couldn't resist the climb and we assumed the other climbers would be done by the time we got there. At this point the leader was halfway up the second pitch.

We parked, racked, and packed before heading up the hour long approach to the Hose. The trail follows a closed road up the hill until it hits an abandoned mining railroad track bed. We contoured along this flat section until at the base of the steep snow gully leading up to the ice. At this point the leader of the other party was still on the third pitch. Once near the base of the route, Wayne yells up at me (he was lower down in the gully), "Get next to the climb and I'll take a photo." A quick glance towards the base convinced me this wasn't a good idea. There was no way I was getting near the base of that route without my helmet on. Ice was falling regularly from above.

Our original plan was to wait for these climbers to rappel off before starting up, but it was clear now that we'd never finish the climb if we waited that long. It also seemed fairly insane to start up this pitch with all the ice falling from above. Nevertheless, after waiting nearly an hour, Wayne couldn't resist the tempting, fat ice and started up. Debris was falling all around me, but fortunately it shot out away from the base of the climb a bit or was to the side of me. I was in a fairly sheltered location, but I had to constantly watch for falling crap from above. Wayne couldn't do anything to avoid the ice fall, but not much came near him on the steep lower section. The upper half was a different story and it looked very frightening.

Wayne led the 140 foot pitch up to an ice cave formed where the ice had flowed over a small overhang in the underlying rock and formed a cave of ice and rock. This was a sheltered belay. Just below and to the left of this belay was a bolt/piton rappel anchor with a couple rap rings. It would have been insane to belay here though. Not just because of the climbers above, but because the leader would continually pelt the belay with ice. It was strictly a rappel anchor.

Wayne had led up decisively, but it had still taken almost an hour for the lead. He placed five or six screws, used an existing ice screw V anchor, and the aforementioned belay anchor for protection. Now it was my turn. I was already cold despite wearing a big down jacket while belaying. My feet were nearly numb, but my hands were okay at the start due to the chemical heaters I had in my gloves.

Wayne:

At the beginning of a climb like this I'll often start out on deliberately dubious placements, to get a feel for the quality of the ice (near the safety of the ground). This day the ice was firm, plastic, and inspiring.  Instant confidence!  This pitch would have gone quickly except that I was sharply aware of the possibility of being brained from above.  On the one hand I felt obliged to put in extra points of protection, in case I got knocked senseless.  But on the other, extra time spent goofing with the pro meant extra time in the line of fire.  Ice climbing is like that: judgement calls; few ideal options.

After clipping the rappel anchor near the top of the pitch I traversed into the sheltered ice and rock cave to belay.  Unfortunately, there were no fixed anchors here.  The wall of the cave was composed of an air-pocketed fin of ice not much thicker than a screw and the few good sections already had screw-holes in them from previous parties.  I put a couple of loose-fitting screws in existing holes and a couple more in new holes too close to some old holes, before I was satisfied.  That all these holes, new and old, might form a fracture-line down the fin was a possibility I dismissed as a judgement call.  Ice climbing is like that:  Lot's of judgement calls; few good options.

Bill climbed the pitch with remarkable speed and competence. (Damn, what's he trying to do!  If we're going to not climb this thing, I need a partner I can blame it on.  Not some hot-shot speed-climber.) We soon found ourselves both cramped in the tiny alcove contemplating our next move.  Climbing further before the other party was off was not an option, as the barrage was funnelling straight down the corner above. That left two alternatives. (Ice climbing's like that:)  1) stand cramped in the cave watching chunks of ice fly by and the shadow of the sun moving toward darkness -- or -- rappel, scrapping all our day's efforts to return tomorrow and repeat all the wonderful slogging and climbing we'd done today.

Bill:

With the danger from above, we chose the safe option and descended. If we were completely sane we wouldn't have started up in the first place. Wayne revealed to me at the belay that he had broken his pick halfway up the first pitch. He always climbs with a third tool, but didn't switch to that tool because he doesn't like the wrist loop much and the other tool was still working somewhat, though it took a number of swings for a good placement.

We made the drive back to Ouray only after stopping in Telluride at Wayne's favorite bakery. Here Wayne got his all important coffee and I noticed that doughnuts were two for one after 2 p.m. This discovery was nearly the highlight of the trip for me. Are you getting the impression that I'm not an ice climber? Good.

Once in Ouray we found a note that our friends were down at the local Italian restaurant. After showering (now was the time to shower! - after climbing), we joined them for a nice meal and discussed the days events. They had a good time climbing ice around Ouray and even had time for a dip in the hot springs before dinner.

After dinner Wayne replaced his broken pick, but he neglected to take the notorious hook off the end of the pick. This oversight would plague him the next day.

Step Three: Dilly dally

We decided to go back and give the Hose another try. Our strategy this time was to get up at 5 a.m. and be over in Telluride for breakfast by 6:30 a.m. so that we could be the first on the route. Now, if I really wanted to be the first on the route I could have guaranteed that. Getting to routes first is a rock climbing specialty of mine. But I didn't really want to climb the route. I wanted to have climbed the route. That's not completely true, but I was worried about my ability to get up the route, the misery involved in freezing my hands so badly, and the humiliation in forcing us to retreat. Hence, I didn't push things.

Apparently Wayne wasn't that jazzed about it either. That, or he is an expert dilly dallier. When my alarm went off, I shut it off and waited for Wayne's alarm to go off. Wayne was sleeping with ear plugs (mainly to block the sound of his own thunderous snoring, but the other guys had high decibel snores also - it was difficult sleeping with these rumble machines) and didn't hear the alarm. But Wayne's alarm never went off! I shook myself wake at 5:09. Wayne had set the clock to the wrong time.

Wayne:

In spite of my best efforts -- setting the alarm so it was sure not to go off and wearing ear-plugs in case it did -- Bill somehow managed to wake up.  Damn!  Now my only hope of survival was to dilly-dally until the sun came up and then eventually went down again, or at least until someone got on the route in front of us.

The rack was scattered about the motel room to dry out and mixed among our room-mates' racks.  Sorting it was worth a good half-hour.  And then there's heating the day's water supply out on the doorstep, with a butane stove. This stove was marketed as a mountaineer's hanging stove.  Whoever invented this low-output wonder apparently knew that a mountaineer's chief concern when faced with an intimidating climb is to find ways to dilly-dally. (George Bell will be happy to offer more colorful commentary on this particular stove, if you remind him of the near liquid-less night we spent one February on the east face of Longs.  But that's a different story.)

Bill:

We got up and I was packed and ready to go by 5:30 a.m. but Wayne wasn't ready until nearly 6 a.m. Bill and Steve snored through all the packing and all the lights. Their alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. and they didn't even move. Damn, these guys are deep sleepers! Sort of like my friend John Black - except that he claims to be a light sleeper. Finally, we left to get some breakfast. If I wanted the climb, I would have eaten a cold breakfast in the car on the drive over. Instead, we went to a nice little place in Telluride with Hardly and his crew.

We lounged around at breakfast forever. I didn't push things out the door since I wasn't sure I wanted out the door. I should have been climbing with Hardly and his group at the less committing Ames Practice and Falls areas. That was more my speed. I secretly hoped that someone would already be on the climb. Wayne even said, "Well, if anyone else was going to do the climb today, then they are definitely ahead of us." Wayne's alternate plan was to come back and do Bridal Veil  Falls - an even harder climb! Surely we'd only have time to ski up there and do the first pitch if that occurred.

Finally, we left for the climb. We pulled into the parking area as the only car there. We started hiking at 8:50 a.m. in 4 inches of fresh powder. The climb was ours! Damn...

I broke trail through the minimal powder up the winding approach and again up the steep snow gully to the base of the route. The approach took me an hour and two minutes. The guidebook says it should take 30-40 minutes. Either we didn't go the best way, or Cameron Burns is a damn faster hiker. We geared up and Wayne started leading the first pitch at 10:10 a.m.

Wayne:

Cameron Burns' larger-than-life approach times are a standing joke in the ice-climbing community.

Bill:

Step Four: Climb with an imbecile

Wayne would have no trouble climbing Ames Ice Hose with an equal partner. If he had gone with Hardly, they would have cruised the route and been back early. But Wayne hadn't met Hardly before and he was down here to climb with me, for better or worse. Mostly worse.

Wayne almost immediately pops off the initial moves. The ice has changed somewhat and this initial difficulty would bother him the rest of the pitch.

Wayne:

As already mentioned, at the beginning of a climb I sometimes start out on deliberately dubious placements.  The ice this morning was colder and more brittle, and the feedback was immediate and clear. It set in me the tone for the day: slightly over-driving every placement. This would eventually take a toll on me.  But it nonetheless seemed justified, since I hadn't climbed much at all in the last two years due to elbow-tendonitis, and I consequently didn't feel I should be hanging it out too far on a big route.

Bill:

Nevertheless, Wayne thankfully, for me at least, placed less gear on the pitch this time. At least he wasn't being bombarded from above. An hour later Wayne was off belay in the ice cave above. My turn again.

Each time I'd remove a screw, I'd forget to knock the ice out of it. Why couldn't I remember this simple task? Maybe my brain is located in my left hand and it was frozen solid along with my fingers. Wayne was patient though. He'd scold me, but never raise his voice. Once, while leading the second pitch, his foot slipped off and I instinctively tightened my grip on the rope. When he moved up, he didn't get slack immediately and said, "Want to watch the slack on the rope?" The implication was: "I'm leading up here, dipstick. If you can't lead at least try not to pull me off while I'm leading."

My hands are frozen solid again at the belay and I do a healthy amount of cussing while going through the notoriously painful de-thaw process. This time up I have chemical hand warmers in my glove and I tried to position them on the backside of my hands so to further insulate me from the ice. Obviously it didn't work well enough for my wimpy hands. Our change-over here is a big slow as things are cramped and my hands are nearly useless for the first five minutes. Finally, Wayne escapes the belay and starts up the crux, second pitch.

After climbing up ten feet, Wayne put in a screw and downclimbed (nearly impossible while ice climbing) back to the belay to rest. Doesn't this guy know about taking? Or hanging? Doesn't he know about resting on the rope? Damn purist. Wayne went on about the difficulties above and about how there is a big gap in the ice where he'll need to lock-off and make a big reach in order to continue. I responded: "I'm sure it was tough up there, but just be glad you weren't down here. My toe-warmer has slipped a bit inside my boot and is now under the instep of my foot. Talk about desperate! Not only am I not getting maximal toe warmth out of it, but it is slightly uncomfortable. Now get your pansy ass up there and finish the pitch."

Inspired by my pep talk, Wayne attacked the pillar with renewed vigor. He's struggling to get past the screw when he kicks too hard against the free hanging icicle encircling my belay cave and the ice breaks off. His spike laden boot comes crashing into my alcove just above my head and I reflexively duck and lock off my belay device, bracing for a fall. But he doesn't come off. He calmly resets his foot on thicker ice and continues up out of my view. A steady rain of debris dropped by my now damaged cave window.

Wayne:

This pitch turned out to be harder than it looked.  The first forty feet or so was the obvious crux.  The main problem here was that the ice was full of big holes and pockets, making it difficult and awkward to place a decent screw.  One of my biggest concerns is that a fall from this section, at least initially, would be straight on to the belay screws.  (Remember those four loose belay screws in the fracture line of the fin?)  It looked like the remainder of the pitch after the initial crux would be a cruise, but this turned out to be an illusion.  While the angle did ease back a little, there remained a very long section of front-pointing without rests, on smooth steep ice.  Since I'd used a significant portion of our screws in setting the belay, and used two more on the crux, I had only a few left.  This left a couple of options (ice climbing is like that):  1) adequately protect the moves above leaving no screws for a good belay, or 2) keep a couple screws for the belay and run-out the pitch.  I chose the latter.  The fatigue of being out of shape from two years of virtual inactivity and over-driving my tools was starting to catch up with me. So was the pressure of being way more run-out than someone should be when they haven't been climbing for two years.  I wanted off.  At that point a chunck of ice caught me square in the nose and blood began a steady trickle.  "I wonder how bad it is?  Never mind.  I don't want to know until I finish this pitch."  Eventually, after a long tedious struggle, I pulled over a bulge and in the rock about forty feet above I saw a gleaming new anchor-chain attached to two fat bolts.  I didn't remember any such fixed anchor there.  It must have been added in recent years. (Those of you who have listened to me whine about bolts in the back-country will be amused to know I've never been so happy to see two bolts in my life.)  I immediately placed one of my precious squirreled-away screws and headed for the bolts.

Bill:

This pitch was very continuous and took Wayne about an hour and twenty minutes to lead it. I was safe in my little Hobbit hole, but started to get pretty cold. Because of the brand new, unmodified pick, Wayne was using lots more energy than usual to remove his tools. Most climbers file off the hook at the end of the pick for exactly this reason. After four pitches of this Wayne would start to tire.

Finally, the "off belay" call was heard and I pulled the four belay screws. Following this steep section was very pumpy, but I found a couple of saving stems. Still, each screw removal pushed me to the limits of what my left hand could take. It would freeze solid and then my hand and arm would get pumped. Just before I'd have to call for tension I'd get the screw clipped to my harness and was able to move on.

When I got to the belay I was a little disturbed to see Wayne's face covered in blood. "Damn, Wayne. What happened?" The obvious, of course. He was hit in the nose with a big chunk of ice. I can't believe he didn't say anything. This guy is the prototypical tough guy. I had been a little surprised to see him climbing without any eye protection, though apparently he needed nose protection instead. I think a full face motorcycle helmet is way to go. That's just up my alley.

Wayne belayed at the second rappel anchor. This consists of two fat bolts just left of the ice climb. Both of these rappel anchors are so close to the ice that much fatter ice conditions might obscure them. This is probably yet another indication of how fat the ice was. Belaying here was great for Wayne. He didn't have to continue up the final steep section and didn't have to belay from screws. Unfortunately it wasn't so great for me since I was in the fall zone of the ice on the next pitch. But Wayne really didn't have much of a choice since he was out of ice screws. The next pitch was short, thankfully, but I was pelted by ice nonetheless.

Wayne climbed up the final steep section of the chimney and onto a short snow/ice ramp. He belayed as high as he could so that we'd be able to finish the climb in two long pitches. Again I would be in the fall zone of the leader's ice debris. At least for the first thirty five feet. Then Wayne was able to traverse left across the face.

Wayne:

The crux pitches were done, but there was still a substantial amount of WI 4/5 climbing ahead.

Bill:

The upper flow of ice is consistent 80-90 degrees, 250 feet high, and about 50-60 feet wide. It is a monstrous flow of ice. It was also deceptively steep and long. That the route was extremely foreshortened is a common phenomenon on climbs, but that it was so much steeper than it looked was strange to me. It looked more like 70 degrees while I was belaying Wayne up this section. I thought I could see a number of relatively flat bulges where one could rest and place a screw. Following this pitch all the bulges I noticed from belay turned into section of "only" 75 degrees steep. This type of ice is intimidating to me. As primarily a rock climber, I'm actually more at home when the ice is in a chimney or near a rock wall that I might be able to stem against or place some rock gear. These pure sheets of steep ice offer no respite for us with little technique.

Wayne:

All through leading and then belaying this  pitch I was beginning to worry about the time.  Bill had shot up all the pitches with remarkable speed and competence, but I was moving too slowly.  We discussed what to do.  I suggested to Bill that I was feeling weak and I suggested that he might lead one these more moderate upper pitches.  He contemplated a bit and pointed out that half-way up a remote, long, and committing route was no place to be practicing his ice-leading skills.  I immediately concurred and felt embarrassed for suggesting it.  With the summit in sight, we decided to descend.

Bill:

I wasn't any help on this climb. I was basically getting guided up this route except that I wasn't charged anything. Near the top with an opportunity to make a contribution, I turned down the chance to lead. Sure, I was following okay, but as previously discussed that has little to do with leading ice. I had never led a bona-fide Grade 4 ice pitch. Taking the lead on a grade 4/5 ice pitch this late in the day and this far up a serious route just wasn't smart. I would have loved to take over and lead us to the top, but I knew my limitations and ice climbing is serious business and stupid, unnecessary heroics is not for me.

In order to descend from the middle of the ice wall, Wayne needed to rig an anchor. Ice screws cost about $60 - not the type of gear you want to leave behind. One option is to cut an ice bollard with your axe. This is basically chipping a chickenhead into the ice.  The problem with this technique is that you can fracture the ice below the chickenhead in the process of chopping it. Also, the rope could flip over the top if you aren't very careful. A much more secure anchor is the ice screw V anchor. This is formed by placing two ice screws into the rock at 45 degrees to the ice surface so that they intersect at a 90 degree angle deep in the ice. The ice screws are screwed in and then back out - forming a tunnel into the ice. Then a sling or cord is slung through this hole in the ice with the help of a coat hanger to pull the cord out the other hole. The cord is then tied into a sling and viola - you have an anchor. As freaky as this sounds, these things are bomber in good ice. One difficulty in forming one of these is making sure the second ice screw hits the hole formed by the first ice screw.

Back at the car we once again found a note. It seemed like we were always one step behind the rest of our friends on this trip. Hardly wrote, "I hope you had as much fun as it looked!" We did.

So, with this easy four step program you are bound to succeed on NOT climbing Ames Ice Hose. Now pessimists would consider this the same as FAILING to climb Ames Ice Hose. But there is a subtle difference. In the former, the goal is not to climb the route, but to keep from getting up early, rushing around, freezing, and dying.