The World's Worst Climbing Partner (2)

"Bones," I said as I heaved my weak ass onto the top of the Buttress crux pitch, grateful for the top-rope "there's this guy I climbed with last year who's totally trash-talking you. His name is--"

"Telemark29@yahoo.com?"

"Wha? You KNOW this guy?"

"Oh yeah..."

Bones was out from Canmore for work, and we'd squeezed in a precious day between work and rains. I clipped in, sat down, rolled a smoke and asked Bones to explain.

The winter before, Bones-- marginally employed, and on a mixed sending spree of epic duration-- had been living in the Canmore clubhouse of the Alpine Club. In exchange for ten hours a week of scrubbing shitters and shoveling snow, he got a cot and a squat. The Clubhouse was something of a ritual stop for ice and mixed climbers showing up in town. You went there, cooked, and posted a partner-wanted note.

One day a couple of signs appeared: "WANTED: ICE CLIMBING PARTNER. I HAVE RACK, GEAR AND LOTS OF ENERGY. PSYCHED TO GET OUT. LEAD WI4, WILL FOLLOW ANYTHING ELSE. Telemark29@yahoo.com"

Underneath that "FOR SALE: ROCK CLIMBING GEAR. VARIETY OF CAMS, NUTS, DRAWS, GOOD CONDITION. I AM MOVING TO CANMORE TO CLIMB ICE THIS WINTER AND DON'T NEED ROCK GEAR. TELEMARK29@YAHOO.COM

Bones was busy, but passed the email on to a friend. Phone calls ensued and Bones' friend-- let's call him The Psyche-- agreed to meet at the Fireside at 6 AM for brekkie, to be followed by a day of ice-climbing.

The Psyche was there at 6. Two hours and seventy-nine cups of coffee later, no telemark29@yahoo.com, so The Psyche went home to vibrate uncontrolably in the comfort of his own house, at which point the phone rang. It was telemark29@yahoo.com, who said "Dude! I'm at the breakfast place! I'm psyched! Let's go!"

Against his better judgment, The Psyche drove back to the greasy spoon to find a shaven-headed, muscular-looking type, Les, who-- after no excuse for lateness was forthcoming-- convinced The Psyche that a three-hours-late start would be no impediment to what was sure to be a lightning-quick ascent of Professor's (WI4).

Our heroes found themselves at the base of Professor's at about 10:30 AM. Now, Professor's is, if I recall correctly from my own ascent with Bones and The Anus, is about 250 meters, so that's about five longish pitches, separated by short snow slopes.

Well, in scene eerily reminiscent of my own adventure with Les on Vector, Les got twenty-five feet up, put in his third screw, and hung, panting. The Psyche gently urged him on, and, an hour later, Les had aided his way to the top of the first WI3 pitch. The Psyche convinced Les to let him lead the rest of the route, but Les stepped in at the final crux pitch-- WI4+ some years-- and launched into it as that lovely alpenglow, ideally enjoyed from the warmth of a chalet with a beer in one hand and a brunette in one's lap, crept across the mountains and The Psyche shivered into his jacket.

Les installed all ten screws within the first twnety meters, climbed up onto a shelf, shook out, and took stock. He had no more gear, twenty meters to go, and the only option for getting out and handing off the sharp end was to downclimb and then lower off his top screw. Les then did the only thing he could think of-- he completely lost his shit. He stood, heels shaking, tools sunk to the shaft, screaming bloody fucking murder, while The Psyche racked his brain for a way to get a weak, freaked-out, in-over-head nutjob who clearly needed another hit of crack (the drug, not the rock feature) to downclimb 5 meters of 4+ before 3 AM in the now fully enveloping gloom.

In the end, somehow, faced with spending a night on his front-points, losing his hands and getting hypothermia, Les managed the brief downclimb, and The Psyche fired up under headlamp power to retrieve his gear. Our heroes returned to Canmore exactly thirteen hours after leaving. With two hours of approach and walk-out time, they averaged two hours and twelve minutes per fifty meter pitch.

The Psyche got a few more calls from Les, and, when the phone calls petered out, his friends started getting them. Les somehow didn't find a whole lot of partners that winter.

"So," I asked Bones, "is he still in Canmore?"

"Doubt it," he said, taking a drag on my smoke. In mid-March, a sign appeared on the Canmore Clubhouse bulletin board.

"FOR SALE: ICE CLIMBING GEAR. TWO PULSARS, NEWISH MAKOS, 6 SCREWS, TWO SCREAMERS. I AM MOVING TO SQUAMISH FOR THE SUMMER AND DON'T NEED MY ICE GEAR. EMAIL TELEMARK29@YAHOO.COM"