Old friends reunite for a Teton classic

By any measure, the Tetons are among the most spectacular mountain ranges in the Lower 48. They dominate the surrounding landscape like Shaquille O’Neal at Hoopfest, offering risk and reward to all who visit.

A friend and I were there last month, finally getting our hands on the southwest ridge of Symmetry Spire. A moderate climb by today’s standards, it was a stout undertaking when first climbed in 1938. In the years that followed, it became a test piece for climbers aspiring to the biggest peaks in the Teton Range.

Today, the southwest ridge of Symmetry Spire is a classic route and a prime example of how far climbing standards have risen. It’s a Grade II, which means it isn’t terribly committing, and the crux moves go at a modest at 5.7.

It wouldn’t quicken the pulse of big-league mountaineers like John Roskelley or Chris Kopczynski, but for weekend warriors like me, it’s always been a worthy goal.

I’ve been venturing into the Tetons for at least 35 years, and the guy at the other end of my rope usually has been Hugh Safford – an old friend from Bozeman. Over the years, we’ve worked out a simple, successful formula: Hugh leads all the scary stuff, I follow quickly, and then we arrive at the top.

This time around, it was no different.

Into the high country

Like every other national park these days, Grand Teton National Park was aswarm with visitors when we arrived. At Jenny Lake, in the heart of the park, the parking lot was overflowing and cars were marooned up to a mile away.

With so many people in the area, we needed to get an early start lest we wind up behind another, slower climbing party.

There are two ways to approach Symmetry Spire from Jenny Lake. The first is to walk 2.3 miles around the south shore of the lake, then scramble 3,000 vertical feet to the base of the climb. The other option is to fork over $18 for a round-trip boat ticket to the far side of the lake.

We ran a quick finances-vs-fitness analysis and, at 6:30 a.m. the next day, we were standing in line for the boat. There were 40 or 50 people in line ahead of us, but none appeared to be climbers.

So far, so good.

Up, up and up some more

It may not sound like much, but 3,000 vertical feet is one hell of a long way to climb before the actual climbing begins.

With temperatures inching into the 90s, it was a miserable, hateful slog up Symmetry Couloir. A faint trail was discernible here and there, but for the most part we clawed our way up through shifting scree and across slippery late-season snowfields.

Whenever I stopped to catch my breath, chest heaving and blood pounding in my ears, I wondered: “Am I really up to this?” The next question that popped into my thought balloon was: “Is this the day I keel over with a heart attack?”

As I neared the foot of Symmetry Spire’s southwest ridge, with Hugh up ahead, I began to hear his voice. Instead of shouting down to me, he sounded like he was speaking with someone close at hand. Worst fears realized. Another party had beaten us to the base of the climb.

Well, hello there

Sure enough, two young guys had skipped the boat, hiked in under their own power, and arrived about 10 minutes before us.

“We’re backpacking guides,” one of them announced brightly, “and we just finished a 12-day trip, so we’re climbing Symmetry on our day off.”

Sure enough, they looked as strong as racehorses. Even their teeth looked strong. Together, their combined age was 45.

It was Hugh’s 58th birthday, and I’m in my middle 60s, so the combined age of our rope was 121.

They were the Young Upstarts. We were the Ancient Ones.

Their leader, an earnest young man named Joey, tied into the rope and began to climb. His partner paid out slack as Joey ascended, keeping a tight grip on the rope lest Joey fall.

Before Joey disappeared out of sight, Hugh called up to him with a question.

“It’s going to be a long day for everyone,” he began, “so would you be OK if I climbed alongside, maybe clipping into your gear now and then, until one of us gets ahead of the other?”

“That’s fine with us,” Joey replied. “It’ll be good to have you guys around.”

We waited politely, making small talk with Joey’s partner until Joey called down that he was off belay and his pal could begin climbing. Hugh gave him a 10-minute head start, then began climbing himself.

“Climb with style or fly a mile,” I said, reciting part of a long catechism that we’ve developed.

“See you next fall,” he replied.

That didn’t take long

Hugh swiftly caught up to the second climber, then forged ahead. After a while, he came to the end of our 70-meter rope. Out of sight and out of earshot, he gave several tugs to signal that he was off belay. A few minutes later, he gave a few more tugs to signal that he was ready for me to climb.

I gave the rope a couple of tugs, implicitly asking if I was on belay. He responded with a few more tugs, which confirmed that, yes, I was on belay. As I climbed, I collected pieces of gear that Hugh had wedged into cracks and then clipped to the rope with a carabiner to protect himself from a fall. The route also was littered with old pitons that had been hammered into place. Always dubious, but better than nothing, such “fixed pins” are staple fare on classic routes in the Tetons.

Like Hugh, I quickly caught up to – then passed – Joey’s partner. Above him, his rope stretched taut to the belay above. Now and then, I had to pass beneath the other team’s rope, which was awkward with a pack on my back.

I don’t recommend it, and I won’t claim it was perfectly safe, but climbing alongside the other party allowed all of us to accomplish what we set out to do.

Pulling away

Hugh is a fast climber with an unerring sense of how far he can go on a 70-meter rope. Time and again, he called out, “Off belay!” when there was only a meter or two of rope left to pay out.

By running it out, he was able to surmount the first two pitches in a single push. Ditto for the next two pitches listed in the guidebook.

Somewhere in that second rope length, I passed Joey and wished him well. After that, I never saw him again.

As they always do on a good day, the pitches blurred together in my mind’s eye. There were little problems to solve now and then, but most of the time I yarded my way upward on big, fat holds.

With the rope disappearing above me, I never faced the danger of a serious fall. I was cautious, but I was never fearful.

Hugh, on the other hand, was continually at risk for a fall when he was on the move. With the rope disappearing below him like a strand of cooked spaghetti, he would fall to the last piece of gear he placed – and then continue falling until the rope finally came under tension. It’s called “the sharp end” of the rope, and it can be a spooky place at times.

Above it all

The day’s most memorable moments came at the belay stances where, as if on autopilot, I paid out rope while Hugh climbed. With nothing else to do, I took in the magnificent scene before me.

The Grand Teton, Mount Owen, and Teewinot – collectively known as the Cathedral Group – dominated the skyline to the east. To the north, Mount Moran loomed over Jackson Lake. To the southeast, Blacktail Butte stood alone in the valley.

Below me, big birds of prey soared lazily on thermals. Dark clouds came and went, and feeble sprinkles of rain fell intermittently, but they were chased away by the sun and wind. From where I sat, the world consisted of blue sky, green forests, shimmering lakes, and vast sweeps of jagged rock.

Once again, it was another good day in the Tetons.