Frozen Winds on the Willey Slide
by Bonnie Obremski

"The ice is a pickpocket," our guide, Kurt Winkler says, "it will steal all of your warmth."  I nod as I cling to a bulge of blue ice on the first pitch of a climb a hundred feet up from the trail where we began, a place called the Willey Slide. This is my second time traveling with Hampshire College to the north for some winter sporting, but much has changed and not for the better. For one thing, temperatures last year averaged in the twenties. Now, the air is often five or ten below, which is cold enough to freeze my water and all of the M&M's mixed in my ration of gorp. As three of us stand on an icy ledge, I use the back of my frozen glove to scrape the mucus from my raw upper lip. I scan the landscape behind me, and though all the trees are blanketed in snow, I cannot help but wonder if being strapped to a chunk of ice on such a frigid day is worth the beautiful view.

Kaitlyn Millen, a first year student at Hampshire College , stands next to me and belays Kurt as he climbs to the next ledge fifty feet up. Kurt has been hired from Mountain Guides Alliance in North Conway . He is in his fifties, has a concerned eye, and if it were not for his climbing helmet and crampons he might just pass for a middle school guidance counselor. When he reaches the next ledge, he will drive in two more ice screws, tie his rope to this anchor, and secure both Kaitlyn and me as we climb to join him. This is the first multi-pitch ascent Kaitlyn and I have ever attempted. We squint upwards as Kurt places the tip of his ice axe into the surface, slams the fangs of his crampons up four steps, and places his axe again.

A wind gust inflates the sleeves of my windbreaker and whirs inside my hood. This ice-covered scar of Crawford Notch, tucked into the White Mountains of New Hampshire, was once home to a family, and the House upon the Notch. In 1825, Samuel Willey Jr. bought an inn constructed by a man named Ethan Allen Crawford. The place was a fixer upper, and when rain pummeled the talus slopes of the mountain, small mudslides would tumble within viewing distance of the cabin windows. The shifting land unsettled the Willey family, and they even made ready to move, but after a period of searching, Samuel Willey felt there was nowhere else to go. On Monday, August 28, 1826 , rain-laden storm clouds burst at the seams and drenched the land, long thirsty from drought. The unstable concoction of mud and stone gained momentum on the mountainsides and tumbled on a direct path toward the Willey family front door. As it was, the hand of fate had placed a ledge on a section of land just above the cabin, and caused the slide to split in half and avoid the household. When a traveler passed though the next day, however, all he found were scattered clothes, disarranged beds, and a Bible open on the table, signs that the family had fled. A week or more passed before flies indicated the positions of the bodies, and even today people are known to shiver with "a case of the Willey's."

"Come on, let's do the funky chicken," Kaitlyn says watching me, and flaps her elbow to keep warm. We have shared two weeks in the sub zero temperatures of Quebec City and, now, the mountains of New Hampshire . There are eight members to our group in all, and with our entire luggage loaded in the van, there is barely enough room for Keith Raybine's mini-DVD player and my knitting needles. I think of last year, when I traveled with three other women students on a quiet ride across the Canadian border. We sketched each other with drawing pencils and tied macramé bracelets with silver beads. This group is different. "What's that you're knitting?" Keith had said, "It looks like a car ran over it."

"You just have knitting envy," I had said back, stretching the yarn up to the light.

I pull my ice axe out of the holster on my harness, wiggle the leash around my wrist, and drive the pick into the ice. The point sinks into the soft medium a few inches and I tug down on the handle to take a step. I am following Kaitlyn up to the second ledge so my job is to clean the route of all the equipment Kurt has left behind. The weight of the gear on my waist harness shifts as the wind catches and pulls at my straps of red and yellow webbing. Two ice screws swing against my thigh and clank against the carabineers clipped onto my gear loops. I look up, and Kurt begins to swing his arms in circles. I stop for a moment near the next ledge and do the same. My hands warm as the sluggish blood pounds back into my fingertips. Back at the first pitch, I had felt as if I had been placed in the refrigerator to solidify. Climbing is better. I enjoy my minutes alone. I like to use the pick of my axe to twist shining steel screws out of the creaking ice.

Five days ago our group was still nestled within the stone walls of old Quebec City where we were housed at the International Youth Hostel. We had been climbing and skiing for several days and I was exhausted. "I know it's hard for people to stop climbing even when they need a rest," Kurt had said to the group over dinner, "but I'm only with you for one more day and I want everyone to be able to take advantage of that." My face had burned with embarrassment. Kurt's words were aimed over my head, but I felt them descend to my heart. After washing the dishes, most people played a game of pool and got ready to go out to the arcade. I sat on the sofa watching, wishing for sleep. Why was no one else tired? With coats and hats, each of them chattered their way out. The salt of my held-back tears burned in my eyes. I needed rest but I did not want to be left behind.

Standing at the base of our final pitch, I look to the left and I am able to see three other members of our group climbing some distance across from us. Carleton Lane 's long, curly locks wisp out from underneath his climbing helmet and his frosty beard makes his mouth expressionless. He is Jeremiah Johnson who has traded in his buffalo hide for Gore-Tex snow pants and performance fleece underwear. Craig Davis follows as they both ascend terrain steeper than what we are climbing. I watch them all through a window, the frame formed by my hood and neck warmer. I am as porous as the melting edges of the ice, the water running cold underneath. The mountains, the ice, the climb, it all flows through me and I have grown too tired to stop and examine the impact of my experiences. The primitive forces of exhaustion invade my brain and turn my thoughts cruel against the other members of the group. I wonder if they notice, or if they feel it too. Tomorrow we will again venture into the bloodless winter and I will go, as tossed by what may come as the Willey's of Crawford Notch.

Bonnie Obremski is a second year student at Hampshire concentrating in journalism, climbing and pretty much anything to do with the outdoors. She is editor of The Beta, a campus on-line journal dealing with outdoor, sports and travel activities at Hampshire.