Three continuous beeps of the alarm splits the seams of my eyelids. Its still too dark, too early, perfect. I quickly put my jacket on, basking in the warmth of the nest I had created last night in the back of a 2 door honda civic. Crawling out, make way to drive out of the industrial building I parked at, driving over to the trailhead. Constant attention to the weather led me to Munising in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Amidst record high temperatures cutting winter short for most of the country (especially the midwest), and maybe with a new grown fondness for ice instead of rock, I found a perfect window of constant sub freezing temps and word that climbs were back in. However due to another camping trip it seemed like I just barely made it.
It was warm. Too warm to freeze. And so it rained all day, since heading over and to when I got to the trailhead it rained. Walking through the trail of rotten planks and leaf litter, the once frozen mud below my feet began to change from crunching to sloshing under my weight. I could only hope the climbs were in.
Ice climbing in Pictured Rocks is interesting as some of the more compelling pillars and formations form over the cambrian sandstone layered cliffs that plunge or slope straight into lake Superior. Seaspray can form an icy base, and in some winters the lake freezes enough for you to walk around the bottom of a climb. However this time I was rewarded with half fallen pillars and climbs that seemed too thin and unstable. Somewhere midway between sand point and miners castle I gleaned over a climb that seemed the strongest contender for good climbing. Anchoring to a strong beech tree I lowered down to the edge of the cliff and combed over the frozen pillar. It was thick, attached to the cliffside, ended where the sandstone slope formed beach, only thinning out where its warm water trickled over. Despite it's strong composure I look at it longer, and sat still in my single tether listening to the waves underneath me. I've dealt with exposure but not really like this.
I set up my single fixed line with double stopper knots and rap down to where my climb starts. I climb. And again, I climb. Soaked, cold wet knee's, a sweaty back and a cats curled tail on the lips.
If there is something to lament on about this trip, is that this may be the kindlings, A pillar, a moment, or a precursor to the urn. When you read into climbing history, many names will be spoken of in high regards for their route's, efforts, character, or inventions. A quick look into a lot of these names will reveal a graveyard that has turned to a mass grave. A glance at alive lucrative climbers or alpinists pushing the line give the vision that of dead men walking. It's scary, but its your responsibility to consider these risks.
In the few quiet moments as I get back home to the regular noise and routine. I take a shower and wash my hair, remembering how the exposure felt, what it took to get to the route, the accumulated time and money I put into doing any of this. It was as if I wanted to hate the experience and drop everything in hopes I never die. It made me nervous, it had me scared. No Roaring winds, no high exposure, no bitter cold in the helpless bivvy, “he died what he loved doing” that's not me, I got other things! But I liked it, and ill probably keep going.