A Solitary Track
The Schrammacher North Face. Still untouched this season. Not a single track anywhere. Just an enormous, lightly snow-covered wall that immediately draws us in.
But first, back to the beginning.
When Chris and I set off for the Valsertal on April 23, we do not really know very much. We do not know how much snow is still in the face. We do not know whether there is enough ice at all. And we certainly do not know whether we will have a realistic chance of climbing through this enormous north face the following day.
But that is exactly what we like.
Chris and I have a very similar approach to the mountains. We prefer to assess the conditions ourselves on site. That makes many things easier. Of course, sometimes that also means turning around in front of the wall. But for us, that is simply part of it. Every day outside is a valuable day.
It probably works so well between us because Chris is not only an extremely strong climber, but also a really good friend.
During the approach to the winter room of the Geraer Hütte, our eyes keep drifting back toward the north face. It quickly becomes clear that there is still no track in the wall, not a single one.
The entire wall lies untouched before us.
Many people would probably see that as a disadvantage. The route already demands a strong sense of navigation. On top of that, breaking trail through fresh snow costs strength and time.
For us, however, the sight feels like a gift.
The thought alone that we might be the first team of the year to climb through this enormous wall immediately fills us with anticipation.
While we make our final preparations in the winter room, the evening sun begins to bathe the wall in a deep orange. It is one of those evenings that automatically makes you calmer.
I take out my jaw harp and play a few notes into the sunset.
Less than a minute later, Chris starts smiling, reaches into his trouser pocket, and pulls out a jaw harp of his own.
We look at each other in surprise.
Neither of us knew that the other owned one.
So there we sit, in front of this huge north face, playing a few pieces together. No musician in the world would probably describe our performance as a masterpiece - but in that moment, it could not have felt more fitting.
Later, we step outside once more and look at the wall in the moonlight.
Tomorrow, we want to draw our tracks up through it.
Of course, we both feel a certain tension. The responsibility is great. The wall is long and offers no possibility of retreat once you begin climbing. But we talk about exactly that openly. For us, that is part of the process.
It is a cold, clear night. Hopefully, the snowpack freezes well.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Less than three and a half hours later, the alarm tears us from our sleep.
It is time.
After a quick breakfast of Vorarlberg mountain cheese and Monika's legendary "Kämmewurzen," we are standing outside the hut at exactly five o'clock in the morning.
The snowpack carries us perfectly, and we make fast progress. We climb without a rope as far as the start of the first more difficult pitch.
Chris takes the first pitch.
The wind whistles through the wall, and the temperatures are freezing. Again and again, we are caught by spindrift - fine avalanches of loose powder rushing down toward us from above.
Despite this, we make good progress.
The second pitch has a special meaning for us, and especially for Chris.
One year earlier, he had already been climbing here. At the time, a large ice formation broke loose when he struck it with his ice axe and hit him directly. Fortunately, the resulting fall ended without serious consequences, and he and his partner were still able to retreat on their own. Nevertheless, Chris spent the following weeks in Innsbruck with his arm in a cast.
Today, none of that can be felt anymore.
We find our rhythm and settle into a real flow. Demanding mixed climbing alternates with beautiful, extremely exposed traverses. Again and again, the route leads through impressive terrain that demands full concentration.
Because the heavy snowfall has covered almost all of the existing protection, we have to build practically every anchor and belay ourselves, relying again and again on alpine improvisation.
Then we reach the crux.
We have actually brought four short ice screws specifically for this section.
But where there should be ice, there is only an almost bare rock slab covered by an extremely thin glaze of ice.
Every report we know describes protecting this pitch mainly with ice screws.
So there we are, in the middle of an enormous north face, faced with a completely different situation.
Turning back is not an option.
I build a solid belay, explain my plan to Chris, and begin climbing.
Carefully, I scrape the ice tools across the thin glaze. Centimeter by centimeter, I work my way upward. The crampons find just enough purchase. After several nerve-racking meters, I manage to place a small hook and finally reach the first possibility for protection.
The cam is secure. A deep breath.
Keep going.
Again and again, I stand with both crampons directly on bare rock. Sparks fly whenever I slip slightly. During a long traverse to the right, I find space for a few micro nuts in shallow cracks, until I finally leave the difficulties of the pitch behind and reach easier terrain where I can build a belay.
When I reach the belay, I cannot help myself.
"Wuhuuu! Chris, you can come up!"
The joy is enormous.
When Chris reaches the belay, he looks at me and says:
"Finki, that was one of the most impressive climbing performances I have ever witnessed in person."
And when Chris says something like that, it really means a lot to me.
The most difficult meters are behind us.
Ahead of us are more exposed traverses and the steep final snowfield.
Again and again, we fight our way through enormous amounts of snow. But now the ridge is almost within reach.
At 4:45 p.m., we top out of the wall and can hardly believe our luck. What a privilege to draw such a beautiful line through a wall like this.
A moment that is almost impossible to describe.
But as great as the joy is, we have to admit that we have only completed half of the tour, because the Schrammacher would not be the Schrammacher without its notorious descent.
The long ridge demands our full concentration once again. Difficult climbing passages, rappels, and constant route-finding cost a great deal of time and energy. We never lose the route completely, but the Alpeiner Scharte simply does not seem to get any closer.
It is not until 10:50 p.m. that we finally reach the Alpeiner Scharte.
What a relief.
From there, we quickly return to the bivouac. Tired, exhausted, and happy, we refuel one last time before completing the final descent.
Completely exhausted or, as Gerry would say, with an "Öüglar," we sit in the car at 1:50 a.m., overjoyed.
Silence.
We reflect on the day.
The first track of the year through the Schrammacher North Face. An enormous tour. A long day. And above all, a special experience with an incredibly good friend.
Thank you, Chris.
