Ice climbing in the White Mountains as a sport goes back many years to a couple of students at Dartmouth who made a newsworthy ascent. Never a widespread activity, it was on an up tick of popularity with young athletes of both sexes, looking for new ways to work off energy and create manageable dangers. Along with the increasing numbers to enter the sport, came advances in its equipment. Boots, jackets, technique had all evolved.
Bob Gold had heard more about Adams’ visit to Great Haystack. “I understand your ski area has gone batty,” was his greeting to Cilla.
“Bob’s level of humor is only slightly higher than that of the mammal he’s referring to.” Andre unloaded rope from his crossover. “I brought along one of the new ice axes I thought you might like to try.” He handed it to Cilla.
“My role is cook,” said Bob, “and I have the finest P B & Js to be found in the Valley of the Saco. Stretched my abilities, but the occasion seemed to warrant it.”
“He’s actually quite a chef,” said Andre. “He made duck a l’orange last night that was as good as any I’ve tasted.”
“That’s why he’s not married. He wouldn’t let a woman in his kitchen,” said Cilla.
“Not true,” said Bob. “I spend too much time in the woods to interest a woman.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Cilla.
“Those with Native American heritage excepted,” Gold put in hastily.
“I hear you’re getting evicted for a freezer,” said Cilla to Andre, testing the weight of the ice ax
“The contractor thinks it’s pretty funny, a walk-in for a one-person household.” Bob tightened his bootlaces.
Andre looked up at the mini glacier. “The usual ascent is to the left. You ready?”
Thirty minutes later they reached a small island of scrub trees on the cliff face some two hundred feet above the valley floor, where climbers often paused for a rest. The three of them were all in excellent condition so kept climbing. Andre was in the lead, Cilla between him and Bob.
She wasn’t sure what happened next. Though she’d done no ice climbing for many years, she’d gradually gained confidence as they ascended. Both men were obviously experienced climbers, and she liked the feel of the new ax in her hands. They’d gone several feet beyond the oasis when the rope yanked her off the ice, and, without warning she found herself sliding down the cliff! She swung her ax into the ice, but it didn’t hold. The island! She grabbed for a tree, but it was pulled out of her hands. Suddenly the rope tightened, and she found herself dangling in space. She grabbed at the ice for a hold, but couldn’t reach it. She looked up. Andre was hanging from the clump.
“I’ve got you!” he yelled. “Hang on! I think I can…” he grunted with the effort as he wound the rope around a clump of small trees, then gradually pulled her up to the island. Bob had managed a hold on the ice and climbed to join them.
“Boy, that was close,” breathed Bob. “Good work, Andre.” Then, “What’s wrong?”
Andre was bent in pain, clutching his right arm.
“You’re hurt. What happened?”
“My shoulder,” Andre gasped.
“Sprained?” asked Cilla.
“I don’t know…” A spasm of pain. “It feels out of place.”
“We better get you to the hospital,” said Bob. “Think you can rapelle down?”
Andre gave a nod. “My left arm’s OK.” And with Bob’s help on the ropes, they were on horizontal ground in twenty minutes.
Dr. Jim Evans at Memorial Hospital pronounced it a dislocation, but had more difficulty getting the shoulder back in place than he’d expected; by the time he was finished, his patient was bathed in perspiration. He met Cilla and Bob in the waiting room.
“I’ll want to see him again in a few days. He shouldn’t be driving until then. He says he’s on vacation, where does he have to go?”
“He’s been with me,” said Bob, “but I haven’t got space for him any more.”
“I do,” said Cilla. “What’s he need?”
“Rest. Gentle exercise.”
“I swim a couple of days a week at the Club. He can go over there with me.”
Andre didn’t like the idea when told. “I’m not a very social creature. It’s midweek, there are plenty of motels with rooms open.”
“Are you allergic to a cat?” asked Cilla.
“No. I’ve two of my own, but…”
“Then it’s settled. It was my fall that wrenched your shoulder. The least you can do is let me help while it mends.” There were more protests, but Cilla had made up her mind.
February 16
The last rays of daylight lengthened Hudson Rogers’ shadow on the snow in front of him as he began long swooping turns from one side of the trail to the other. Referred to in early days as “the Narrow Arrow”, The Needle had gradually been widened in order to, it was said, suit the tastes of contemporary skiers. Perhaps as likely it was the desires of ski area operators to accommodate more traffic on the same number of trails. For his taste he preferred the narrower trails, spiced with imaginative twists and turns, opening up crisp, white sculptures around each corner. He was almost finished ribboning White Snake, a new back-of-the-mountain trail scheduled for cutting come spring. It would justify its name.
He jumped a mogul, spreading his skis wide, then bringing them together just before landing.
He reached the lip and stopped. His head throbbed from the jump. Perhaps he should have Jim Evans check it. Maybe the inquisitive doctor could restrain his curiosity for once. He himself had been surprised to find a houseguest on his return from Europe. Particularly a male houseguest. Cilla was wary of men - no, that wasn’t strong enough, she just didn’t like men - and would never consider giving one houseroom. An exception had been made for one who saved her life.
He admired the more intimate view than that from the top. It was a specially welcome sight after St. Petersburg - the sweep of the Presidential Range and the White Mountain National Forest; to the east the villages of Mt. Washington Valley nearly bare under a thinner than usual layer of crusty mid-winter snow. It was Tuesday, the weekend hordes had long since returned to their homes in Newton, Hingham and Avon. Below him the trail dipped steeply and cut sharply to his right, leaving jumbled mountains at eye level, and valley far below. Easy lift rides to views like these probably spoiled many for the effort to reach them in summer, he thought. Yet there is no substitute for the feeling of aloneness on a mountain peak or trail - where all you can hear is chirp of a cricket or, as now, the click of your skis. That’s why he enjoyed the end-of-day run, sweeping the mountain for leftover skiers,
