Glasgow Herald
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Return to Fitzroy
Article by
Mike Coleman
The author, who participated in the first alpine style ascent of Mount Fitzroy in 1971, makes a return to that notorious triangle of ice and clouds – 35 years later. It is a fleeting return – a reunion in the mind in which Coleman visualises with nostalgia the beauty of the mountain and
There is a saying at the bottom of the world that, if you want to experience all four seasons in Patagonia, you have to spend the day. I have already spent several years by that yardstick holed up in the windsocks that pass for tents here. I've been waiting for a break in the blitzing skies for a rematch with Mt. Fitzroy, a monolith of stone and ice whose jagged profile is an emblem of vertical adventure. The tallest mountain in the Patagonian Andes, Fitzroy is known for its towering face, which is one of the pinnacles of rock climbing. Over the last 35 years this mountain has been my ecstasy — and agony. When I was 19, exultation and tragedy combined in a rite of passage that shaped my life. Now, at 54, I am back. And wondering if I'm not delusional to be here.
Rising in sheer audacity at the southernmost tip of the Andes astride the Patagonian Ice Cap, Mt. Fitzroy named after Robert Fitzroy, captain of the HMS Beagle — is so well-defended by notorious walls and storms that fewer have stood on its 11,070-foot summit through history than on the top of Mt. Everest in a single day. Most climbers are battered into submission, many are injured, and more than a few have died.
Buffeted in my tent at base camp, I can only wait and wonder about what Fitzroy and the elements have in store for us when we are clinging to the peak's exposed wall. The trouble is, I know all too well.
In 1971, Fitzroy had been climbed only a handful of times, our route but once.
We were seven fledgling mountaineers in our 20s for whom the summit of Fitzroy was a prize beyond measure — worth risking it all. We called our team the Haggis Ball, haggis being the only thing that comes close to climbing. Three would make the ultimate ascent: Bruce Barclay, Ronnie Richards and myself.
Outwardly, we couldn't have been more different. What we shared was climbing, a love of mountains and a deep friendship. On the rock there was no one I would rather have on the other end of my rope, no one sturdier or more capable than Richards.
In your 20s you don't ask why. You simply do it. Fitzroy was to be "the big one." Unconsciously we believed its summit would be the great hunt from which we would return, trophy in hand, to be hailed as warriors. But, as we would learn, to return at all would be the challenge.
Excuses exhausted. Three decades had passed, and I had never exorcised the demons of that climb.
The man at 54 still remembered the moment that Richards had turned to the boy of 19 and said, "You didn't really train for this, did you? You are not really ready, are you?" And still they climbed on. Still his friend had tied on to his rope, put his life in his hands. The man remembered the fear and regret he had felt at 19 during and after that climb. It still haunted him.
Then one day a friend asked me what was left unfinished in my life as I approached the mid-century mark. I said one word: Fitzroy of the cold air in my lungs. What if I decided at 54 to get into the best shape of my life, to truly step back into the life of adventure?
Over a year and a half of training in the mind, I regained forgotten snow-and-ice techniques and honed my rock skills, climbing on the great walls of remembered years. I was fuelled by the greatest motivator: fear. This time I knew what I was up against — and that, no matter the outcome, there would be no room on this expedition for someone to say: "You didn't really train for this, did you?"
I'm encouraged by my team. But no matter how strong the team is, it's the weather that will decide our fate. Storms surge so fast off the Pacific and across the ice cap that the most glorious day can become a gale-lashed battle zone in a blink. The round trip from advance base camp to the summit of Fitzroy will require a day and a half of non-stop climbing. Exposed on the pinnacle in a storm, we would have little chance of making it back. I heard about a young climber named Franky, who had appeared on the local scene a couple of years ago and became everyone's favourite.
"Too bad about Franky," I was told.
"Why too bad?" I asked.
"A storm hit him on the way down. He's still hanging up there. Like a Christmas
ornament."
Face to face.
Thirty years ago, Franky could have been any one of us…
…Climbing legend Eric Shipton called this range of knife-edged towers the "fatal lodestone." It is a kind of madness. To risk one's existence and face extremes of exertion and discomfort, to spend your entire life savings in the mere hope of standing for a matter of moments atop an icy rock is not logical. But then again, neither is life. There is no reason for life, no answer to the question of life other than more life!
As D.H. Lawrence wrote, "For man, the vast marvel is to be alive. For man, as for flower and beast and bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly alive…. We ought to dance with rapture that we should be alive and in the flesh, and part of the living, incarnate cosmos"…
…There may be myriad ways to find this awakened state. But those of us who truly love the mountains often know but this one. And why Patagonia? Because here, with the screaming wind, ice-draped towers and thundering avalanches, it is difficult to fall back to sleep…
…The clouds are back to their usual fury. A legend of the indigenous Tehuelche Indians says that when a mist obscures the peak of Fitzroy, evil spirits have arrived and tragedy will ensue. My last image of Barclay was of him being swallowed by clouds…
…I reach a hand across 30 years and touch the rock. Tag, Fitzroy. You're it. Spindrift whirls. Clouds engulf the summit. It is time to descend before the peak claims any more victims in the Tehuelche tradition.
We return fully spent and alive. What was not within our control had evaded our grasp, but we had done all we could. Mahatma Gandhi once said, "Full effort is full victory." I'd gone 10 rounds with the Godzilla of my past and come out standing. This time I was ready. Barclay would be proud. But you only claw to the top of this summit when Fitzroy was ready...
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