Ice expectations

I never really know why anyone climbs anything. It’s a pleasing movement and sometimes attains views and routes that are inaccessible without ropes and other protection. That is my main goal with climbing, getting somewhere I couldn’t otherwise. I can’t reach little rock summits in the Alps without a rope, or the amazing finish of the Arête des Cosmiques on the viewing platform. I do also enjoy bouldering in Fontainebleau, even though I’ve not been for many years, because it’s relaxing and sociable, and there are so many routes you can always find whatever you feel like doing that day. I have so many happy memories of those days, even though they seem far away now. There is endless cuteness and fun involved in climbing days out with kids, as well as the long-gone days when we went to the Alps as a new partnership.

Ice climbing though – I can’t really think of a situation where there isn’t an alternative to climbing straight up the face of a frozen column of water. Maybe Patagonia, or exploring some dry glaciers, or trying to get across mountainous terrain in Winter, but I reckon you could achieve almost any “progress to the top” goal using a standard rope setup with crampons and a walking axe – not two insanely sharp, angled axes and a load of even sharper ice screws. It definitely is not in any way a family friendly activity. To do the multi-pitches that do look ultra cool, you would have to run a belay off an Ablakoff thread, which I used to think was the craziest thing I had ever seen, and really wanted to learn how to do, but as a parent, I have lost interest in “yeah, bit sketchy, probably fine, let’s find out”.

Still, when I first went to Rjukan last year, I really enjoyed it. I had spent months working on my fitness and my upper body strength, and the simple routes at Ozzymosis  felt well within my reach, even if I still can’t really build any belay to save my life. My lack of self-rescue and security skills increasingly bugs me.

It’s an awesome place in the middle of Telemark county. There is a large ski resort called Gausta at the top of the Gaustatoppen mountain. In town, there is afffordable and really cosy accommodation at Rjukan Hytteby, and plenty of shops. The Intersport will sell you a fishnet wool base layer made by Brynje, because they seem to lie in wait identifying which customers will march straight to the till. Richard says he’s been looking for this for 20 years.

You are climbers, yes? Look what I have here for you. Only one left in your size.

There is also an amazing museum called Vemork, which houses the remains of the heavy water plant that was destroyed to prevent it being used by the Nazis to distill Deuterium and create a nuclear bomb. The basic outline of the story is that Norwegians remain absolutely badass Vikings, and the Nazis had to eat their hats. The Brits made some heroic but futile attempts to assist, which the Norwegians are very gracious about. It’s really worth seeing.

Anyway, this year was somehow not quite all that. It’s still a great little town, our hut was nice and warm and hygge (or whatever the Norwegian equivalent is), we enjoyed the pool and the sauna as much as before, and  had the best ice there’s been in a decade. Every single route was fat and milky. It was -9 in town every day, and -11 even with the small height increase of Krokan. We had all the right gear. I wore three layers on the bottom and seven layers on the top, and apart from the usual problem I seem to have with gloves not fitting, it was pretty comfortable.

I think it was just not the trip I had in mind. Until a week ago, we were not planning on climbing at all, because of Richard’s head injury. I thought  maybe there would be walking routes we could find that could still be fun and challenging, maybe some more tourist opportunities. A few days before we left, Richard said maybe we should take all the climbing equipment with us, “just in case”. 

Having British Airways oversell our seats on a flight we booked six months ago and got up at 4 am for didn’t help matters, as it resulted in an entire day sitting in the lounge, and eventually ending up in the Oslo airport hotel because our hire car was gone. So we had missed the Norrona ice festival by the time we arrived, tired and a bit deflated on Sunday afternoon.

Still, Richard was so happy to be climbing, and of course it would be a waste of all that effort lugging the gear if we didn’t use it. I think the dissonance was too much for me, between seeing my husband in a head brace to get a CT scan in January, and happily bashing some axes into the ice in February. I had not spent any time at all training, as I had been trying to reduce all the rest of his tasks for the last six weeks – so I spent all my time cooking and washing, and decided I would worry about fitness another time.

I was enraged by the physical unfairness of it all. A woman can’t just rock up at an icefall and swing the axes around a bit, with no training (and admittedly also next to no skill), but a man who has barely left the sofa since Christmas can apparently lift heavy gear above his head all day long. I felt taxed in every direction. I had lost my husband to concussion for a few weeks, and felt disconnected from him, and then this random stranger I was married to sauntered off up the WI4 before I’d even worked out the leashes on my axes.

I think watching Katla on Netflix really didn’t help. It’s about an erupting volcano in Iceland which seems to deliver uncanny doppelgangers of people. They look the same, and have the same memories, but they are subtly different versions. I felt this unfamiliarity, but then thought I must be imagining it. It was strange for us to be without the children, because it took us back to another time in our lives, but with a big missing piece in the middle.

I think rock climbing is something you can do in any frame of mind. It feels natural and harmonious, with movement delivered by muscles, and equipment only required for safety, not for movement.

Ice climbing is for…vikings. And I am not one of them.