After ten minutes of heroic axe swinging, toe kicking, shivering, and aggressively not looking down, I was certain I was near the top of the 50-foot ice wall I’d been climbing. Any second now, I’d hear cheers from my fellow climbers, impressed by my raw athleticism and mountaineering prowess.
Then I glanced down.
I had climbed seven feet. Seven.
Which, for reference, is roughly the height of a refrigerator.
There comes a time in every man’s life when, if he is lucky, he will abandon all responsibilities for a long weekend of golf and beer with his equally irresponsible friends. This is known as “The Sacred Golf Trip.”
This wasn’t that. I was instead ditching my obligations to climb frozen waterfalls.
Yep—I traded golf spikes for crampon-compatible mountaineering boots, packed my truck with sharp objects, and headed to Ouray, Colorado—a town so dedicated to making winter sports look fun that its motto is “The Switzerland of America.” (For reference, it’s pronounced “Yur-ay,” as in “Yur-ay complete fool for trying ice climbing.”)
This all started when my friend Shawn suggested we should look into ice climbing.
That’s when we discovered a disturbing term that ice climbers call: the screaming barfies.
Here’s how it works: When your hands or feet get extremely cold, your body—being the helpful survival machine that it is—cuts off circulation to your extremities so that your vital organs such as your spleen (motto: The Switzerland of internal organs) stay warm. Then, when you finally get blood flow back, your nerves wake up all at once and begin transmitting a sensation often described as a burning or “screaming” pain. The discomfort can be so severe that it can make someone feel nauseous—hence the “barfies.”
Yes, we learned about this affliction and still willingly decided to give ice climbing a go.
Arriving at the Ice Park, we spoke with one of the park’s rangers who recommended we familiarize ourselves with the types of ice which, we learned, include Blue Ice, White Ice, Cauliflower Ice, Chandelier Ice, Pillar Ice, and Vanilla Ice Ice Baby. We learned about ice climbing grades (WI1 through WI7+).
Then, for safe climbing, he gave us a quick lesson to help us develop an ability to “read” the ice. He recommended we look for signs of cracks, hollow sounds, and nonsensical rap lyrics like “Flow like a harpoon daily and nightly.”
Wanting to maximize our time, we asked the ranger, “So, are they super strict about kicking people off the ice right at 4 p.m.?”
“Oh no,” he said, shaking his head. “Nobody’s going to yell at you.”
We were relieved.
“We just turn on the hoses at 4.”
“Fair enough,” we said. “We’ll be off by 4,” as we set off to find our first route.
Once I was harnessed up and roped in, it was time to conquer the ice.
And that’s when I climbed just slightly higher than a KitchenAid.
Turns out ice climbing is a sport in which you evaluate, at all times, your arm strength, flexibility, and life choices.
Fortunately for me, seeing my first climb, a neighboring climber gave me some advice.
“Give up,” he said.
I’m kidding.
He gave me some great advice on keeping my heels down and allowing the crampons and legs to do more of the work.
The advice was so good that, after 10 minutes of climbing, I was able to get 9 feet off the ground before the barfies started screaming.
So I asked for more coaching. Everyone was very helpful except one guy—the “Nah Dude.”
You’ll often find these “Nah Dudes” in Colorado (motto: the Colorado of America).
A Nah Dude is that guy who, no matter what you say, must immediately respond with, “Nah dude,” before proceeding to tell you that your experience was so pathetic, so laughably unworthy of human notice, that you might as well have spent your weekend knitting potholders.
The conversation basically went like this:
Me: “I tried my first WI4. Super pumped, but my forearms were wrecked after.”
Nah Dude: “Nah dude, WI4? That’s a warm-up. Last winter, I soloed a WI7 pillar at 3 a.m. without ice axes—just stabbed my fingers into the ice like a wolverine.”
No one has ever won against a Nah Dude. The creature exists only to make your achievements seem feeble and to remind you that, compared to him, you are a mere sentient marshmallow.
Despite the Nah Dude, it was an awesome experience, we got badass photos, and by the end of the trip I managed to climb to the top of the 50-foot ice wall.
So, if you ever decide to try ice climbing, please email me. Specifically, I’d love to know:
- How you convinced yourself this was a good idea.
- What brand of ridiculously double-digit ABV IPA you were drinking at the time.
I can already hear the Nah Dude one-upping that one, “Nah Dude, I drink triple-digit ABV beers, last week I had a 150% ABV beer. I have always been known to violate the conservation of mass.”
Sure, dude.
No doubt you also “flow like a harpoon daily and nightly.”
