by John Turner

Our second approach to the east ridge of Bugaboo Spire was deliberately casual; this time we soothed ourselves with the reflection that we had no intention of actually climbing the awful profile that is seen from Boulder Camp, but were simply making a reconnaissance.

On arrival in the area ten days earlier we had enjoyed a spell of remarkably fine weather, taking advantage of it to climb both Bugaboo and Snowpatch Spires by their ordinary routes. The passage of the gendarme on Bugaboo left us suitably impressed by the talents of the late Conrad Kain: at the point of maximum hesitation one is stared in the eye by the empty socket of an expansion bolt, a reassuring indication that although others had hesitated here in the past, men of principle are still to be found in the mountains.

Two days later, Snowpatch Spire provided a beautiful climb, full of delight, marred only by the singularly misleading directions found in the guidebook. The summit book, over a variety of famous names, had comments ranging from gloomy misgivings over the state of the weather to incoherent raptures over the joys of the climb.

After a days rest, followed by the first attempt on the east ridge, we made an abortive expedition to the Howser Spires. The somewhat grandiose plan was to pitch Camp on the col between Pigeon Spire and the Howser South Tower, and to use this as a base whilst working out at traverse of the Howsers. Such a route would be a major mountaineering expedition, the crux being obviously the vast expanse of unclimbed rock between the center and south towers. However, a two day blizzard beginning with a thunderstorm on the night of our arrival plastered the Howsers with sufficient new snow to make climbing out of the question for several days; as soon as the weather permitted we retired gracefully to the comforts of Boulder Camp.

Here, once again, the east ridge taunted us. To a party somewhat satiated by the pleasures of walking, such a route had obvious appeal; apart from the east ridge of Snowpatch, we could not hope to find anything nearer to camp. Despite rumours that Jim McCarthy had put in several hundred feet of artificial climbing on this route before being driven back by bad weather, it still seemed worthwhile to take a look for ourselves. After a half day's soft living, Dave Isles of Princeton Mountaineering Club and I set off for the reconnaissance, leaving the remainder of the party drying out the equipment salvaged from our snow-bogged high camp. As we crossed the glacier the sky seemed unsettled and stormy: a great deal of high cloud, through which the sun gleamed but fitfully, was scudding across from the west. Reassuring ourselves by repeating that this was, after all, only a reconnaissance, we scrambled up 200 feet or so of easy rock to the col that separates Bugaboo and Crescent Spires. From here vast slabs lead gently up to the terrace at the foot of the ridge proper.

The jagged blocks strewn here about provided excellent point of vantage from which the situation could be considered. Above, the ridge swept upwards, a broad curved oppressive bastion, horrifically steep, embarrassingly smooth; however, closer examination, to our relief, disclosed and abundance of cracks and flakes, which it was felt would more than compensate for the shortage of ledges. Through these cracks the wind was gusting in a rather depressing manner, whilst some 200 feet above our heads it was tossing a tangle of hemp lying attached to a piton. This marked the highest point reached by the previous party. There seemed no reason for not following in their footsteps, so without depressing ourselves by gazing at the ridge any further, we roped up and started climbing.

The first two pitches followed a crack up the left edge of a tremendous detached flake, narrow enough in places to necessitate a lay-back, in others wide enough for one two gaze through it to the north, across the Vowell Glacier, to the peaks of the Bobbie Burns group beyond. This brought us to a point where McCarthy's party had apparently started artificial climbing; being both lazy men, we were loath to embark upon the strenuousities that such a pitch would entail, unless it were absolutely necessary. A series of flakes to the left offered a tempting line, which I followed, hoping to traverse back to the right when suitable opportunity arose.

The climbing was intriguing, nowhere more than and easy 5, but quite sustained at that level. All attempts at traversing back to the rusting line of pitons on the right were sternly repulsed, and steadily the persuasive time of Isles talked me further up into the left, until the 150 feet of rope ended at a ledge poised above the southeast face. Above was a 20 foot wall, bare of holds or crack; it looked very much as though we would have to return and follow the original line. When Dave joined me on the ledge I descended slightly and stepped around the corner to the left; there, surprisingly, was an easy groove leading to the top of the 20 foot wall, and above this a spectacular gangway curved back to the crest of the ridge.

We were now about 100 feet directly above the highest point reached by the previous party. Above us was a long crack in a shallow groove; morale was high, and only brief consideration was necessary to convince ourselves that we could climb further if called upon to do so. It seemed, however that this was as far as our reconnaissance should do: the temperature was falling, the sky was more threatening, the wind was rising, carrying through the pinnacles and flakes of the ridge in vicious rending blasts. To clinch the matter, it was almost time for tea, so we hesitated no longer, and rappelled off, vowing to return on the morrow.

Two days of meditation and marmot hunting ensued whilst intermittently the east ridge glowered the at us damply from between rain clouds. The third day was to be my last in the area, and so it had been decided to make some kind of attempt on the ridge regardless of the weather. Having woken to a threatening sunrise and wavering barometer, we endeavored to look resolute as we set off up the glacier.

The first rope was to consist of Dick Sykes and myself: Dick was the strongest mountaineer of the party, having had sessions in both the Alps and the Himalayas, not to mention assorted experiences on both English and American rock climbs. The second rope would consist of Dave Isles and Dave Craft, the latter a Shawangunker of some note, and like myself on his first expedition to the mountains. Before we reached the foot of the ridge the weather had cleared completely, and to our relief remained settled for the rest of the day.

The highest point of the reconnaissance was quickly reached; the crack above proved to be the hardest pitch of the climb: a trifle greasy, it required an interesting combination of jamming, bridging, and layback, but rewarded us by leading to the first major break in the ridge, a ledge about 15 feet wide. The steep wall above this was split by two cracks of which the one on the right seemed more commendable; a traverse left at the top lead to a long easy chimney, which was followed without difficulty to the second break in the ridge.

Two interesting pitches on damp lichenous rock, slightly on the north side of the ridge, brought us back into the sunshine; gazing across at the ordinary route, we could see small figures wondering disconsolately about the base of the gendarme, hoping against hope that the guidebook was deceiving them. Our difficulties seemed to be over, and we scrambled rapidly along the spiky, and in places, knife-edged summit ridge. A small gendarme barred the way; it was surmounted by a delicate step above the exhilarating exposure of the east face, followed by a rappel down the far side. Five hours after roping up we were at the summit cairn, shaking hands, eating lunch, signing in.

We had gratified our ambition of the last two weeks, yet despite this, a slight sense of anticlimax pervaded the party. The ordeal for which we had steeled ourselves had failed to materialize, and we felt both relieved and cheated. But back in the camp that night, as we drank toasts in shots of brandy hoarded against such an occasion, no such dissatisfaction remained, and we remembered only the pure joy and delight of the climb. In years to come, it will doubtless proved popular. The east ridge of Bugaboo Spire is no place for the tiger seeking to display his virtuosity, but rather will appeal to those who enjoy climbs of technical interest in a perfect situation and above all, to those who climb for pleasure.

From Montage 42.3, November 1984.