When my parents were in high school, growing up just outside of Boston, they visited Tuckerman's and coming from a family of skiers and snowboarders, I've heard about the place my whole life. When I finally saw it, it was absolutely amazing.
At the end of the day, but before the sun set, I grabbed my snowboard and hiked to the top. It was advised by one of the snow rangers to take Right Gully or Lobster Claw (two easier, less steep trails). I respected the advice but told myself if I'm here, I'm hiking up and going down one of the hardest sections of the headwall. I wanted to do The Lip, a classic run with a slope grade between 50-55 degrees...depending on the snow build up and time of year. I've been snowboarding and skiing my whole life and this year began teaching at a mountain on the other side from where Tuckerman's Ravine is. I am confident in my ability to ride anything, or at least try it.
I never let my fear of heights stop me from doing things and I force my way through or put myself into situations where I should probably be leaving with a lofty smell of urine trailing behind. What I didn't expect was how demanding the hike up would be and how my fear of heights would kick in. And it did when I was about 2/3 of the way up and looked down for the first time. The best way I've described the climb up the headwall is, imagine standing on your toes on a 3 inch-deep platform (just big enough for your toes in snowboard boots) on the sloping roof of a 50-story building for 45 minutes to an hour. You kick in the snow twice to be sure your foot holds, then you take another step up. Repeat. I was carrying my snowboard and jamming it in the snow about a foot or so from my face. I used that to help hoist myself up. I was lucky that the first time I looked down was at the point of no return. Had I looked down before, as it's suggested to be sure you're not in over your head, I may have stopped sooner.
It was then that I realized I should have listened to Jeff, the snow ranger. I had no ice axe. I had no ski poles. I had nothing stopping me from a tremendous slide if I slipped. And I thought, sure death, hitting a rock below at 120 M.P.H. When I realized this, my knees started to wobble. I wanted nothing more than to quit. To sit down and put on my snowboard. To have some control. I stood, because that's the only option, facing the snow. My calves flexed holding my body up. My gloved hands clinging to the snowboard I wedged in. I felt like I was going to pass out. Great. A rag-doll. Looking up, I saw an indention in the snow that looked like a ledge someone dug. I told myself I'd get there and reassess.
There was no ledge. Next I spotted a set of rocks maybe 50-100 feet further. I made it. Decided I made it this far and I wasn't going to whimp out. A few more times I set a target to reach and reassessed.
This whole time there was one other guy climbing in my tracks. He had to be in his 70s. A veteran. He told me to just take my time. I mentioned I made the mistake of looking down. "Oh. Oh, don't do that," he responded. Poles in one hand and skis draped over his right shoulder. He's obviously not scared of heights. A veteran on the ravine, I thought. Maybe one day.
Finally, a cluster of rocks. The top. A sign was about 20 feet ahead but this was the top. Who needs to get to the sign? I'm sure I looked like someone who crawled onto the beach after a shipwreck as I pulled myself and hugged the rocks. I sat and looked out. You can't see the bottom. About 20 minutes later and after my jello legs were back to semi-norm, I strapped on my board. Hopped up, made a turn and down the headwall I went, slicing through the spring snow. People hooted and hollered from the rocks below, as they did for everyone descending the wall. It was crazy how as soon as I strapped in, all my fears went away. I was staring straight down this snow bowl and didn't think twice about the height. The ride lasted about 10 seconds and worth every bit.
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