The Second Ascent of The Phantom Wall

May 1991

Third attempt on "the illusive Phantom Wall" Jay Smith and Paul Teare stand on a clear, windless summit. Smith takes out his bic and, removing his gloves, lights it. 

The flame rose straight to the sky. In all directions the shimmering peaks of the Alaska Range glistened like so many silverfish. Two years of effort had rewarded us with one of the finest routes we have ever climbed. (1)

26 years later, the route was unrepeated.  

May 2017 

We spent nearly a three weeks on the Tokositna Glacier, below Mt Huntington. Snowed in, waking each day to a buried tent door and a headache from mild asphyxiation. We watched looming clouds break over the immense granite pyramid, spilling over base camp, a dense, white haze.
       

Then, a window of opportunity: the weather forecast called for three sunny days. Now we loaded our packs and trudged toward the Tokositna Icefall and Death Valley. It was 7:00 p.m. on Thursday, May 8.

Thigh-deep snow from base camp through the Tokositna icefall. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

Dark fell at midnight and we dropped into Death Valley's silent bowl. Looming all around were icy walls caked with enormous globs of snow. ticking time-bombs that would come crashing into the valley from the coming warmth of morning light.

It was an anxious kind of sleep we had in our little tent.

My alarm sounded at 5:00 a.m. We put on our boots and opened the tent door. Our nose hairs immediately froze.

We ate oatmeal and shared drinks of coffee from the stove pot while the massive walls surrounding our camp maintained their silent composure.

Waking up below The Phantom Wall. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

A girdling crevasse called a berg-shrund guarded the Phantom Wall at its base. Despite receiving advice from a fellow climber that the shrund was impassable, we crossed without major incident. 

The snow steepened and we climbed through two small bands of rock. Up and to our right, a cerac and bus-sized ice blocks scattered below it. We cut right and crossed the icy carnage, climbing into steeper terrain.

The long slog before the crux pitches on the headwall. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

At the base of the headwall, we dug a bench in the snow and ate expired Mountainhouse meals after which, we climbed a hundred feet of ice and overhanging snow. There were very few options for protection here. The ice was thin and discontinuous, the shallow snow lay atop featureless granite.

By now the sun had long crossed to our side of the mountain and baked the walls surrounding Death Valley. We heard the rumble of massive slides far below.

We climbed 600 feet of technical ice and rock swapping leads, following the path of least resistance.  We crossed sections of barren rock with little to no protection. My frontpoints skated for purchase across the smooth stone. God I missed my climbing shoes!

Not a photo from The Phantom Wall but accurately portrays the quality of rock. Just imagine a few thousand extra feet below and you basically have it. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell.

It was getting late. The steepness of the wall provided no spacious ledges to pitch a tent. Around midnight we chopped little platforms out of the ice, spread our bags, and slept tethered to an ice screw.

Carving out a ledge to sleep on. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

Dropping temperatures sent spindrift flowing down onto us from the icefield above. We were completely exposed. After four hours of sleep, sunlight reflected off the frozen peaks to the west. We inched out of our ice-encrusted bags and made breakfast.

The last hard pitch loomed above us: a granite wall split vertically by a small seam. I hacked at the ice built up inside the crack to place protection. After an hour of climbing, I equalized a belay  off of several stoppers. I can’t imagine how Jackson’s toes were doing by the time he started climbing, but he was able to toprope it clean at M6.

A few more pitches of rock and ice brought us to the upper ice field: a 70 degree face of bullet-hard ice, extending to the summit. Jackson led three pitches consecutively until I was certain I would shit my thermals if I didn't relieve myself. I hung my weight on the rope and dropped drawers.

I offered to take the next lead feeling quite renewed.

The ice stretched upward, seemingly endless. Our arms and legs cramping from the monotonous swing and kick.

The Summit Icefield and the vertical cap many meters above. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

Finally, the last pitch loomed above us. It was a mere 40 feet of vertical ice. No big deal. But the culmination of every foot of rock, ice and snow of Mt Huntington's west face lay below us. Barely eight hours of sleep over the last two nights. Our brains and bodies were fried.

Jackson led the pitch to where the angle lessened and, exhausted, pounded a picket into the snow. I followed slowly, every swing feeling like a last ditch effort. I grovelled up the last 60 feet of low angle snow to the summit.

The thin air whipped about us, blasting our faces with icy flakes. The sun was visible through the thin cloud that enshrouded Huntington’s peak. All around us the disembodied summits of the Alaskan Range floating in the haze. It was about 5:00 p.m.

If I look pudgy, it's from all the bacon pancakes I devoured while we sat around for two weeks in a storm. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

As we descended, my thoughts fell into a rote pattern of food fantasy. I recall the image of a bacon-stuffed quesadilla as one of the single most arousing images my young mind had yet conjured.

Around 11:00 p.m. we walked into base camp dragging uncoiled ropes in the snow. Greeted by someone holding out a skin of water, he said, "So I guess this means you're not a mollusk"(1).

We took gulps of water as we talked about the route and stripped ourselves of pack, crampons and harness.

In base camp we found victory snacks of candy and beer, left by fellow climbers who had since flown out. I was mindless with craving as I fired up the camp stove, chewing away at something sweet and gummy, melting butter in the pan and breaking apart frozen tortillas.

REFERENCE:

1. www.alpinist.com/doc/ALP20/sidebar-huntington-smith-1991