Tucked away in a historic part of North Atlanta sits the ruins of a mill that produced wool for the Confederacy. Union soldiers burnt it to the ground in 1864, but for reasons unbeknownst to local historians, they didn’t touch the antebellum home of the man who ran the mill. James King, the grandson of Roswell King, built what’s now known as Allenbrook in 1856. The National Park Service acquired it and the surrounding forest in 1978 during Jimmy Carter’s creation of the Chattahoochee River National Recreation Area. This little piece of Civil War history is where I learned to rock climb.
Down a steep trail from Mr. King’s home is a 50-foot-tall sandstone crag where aspiring alpinists and Boy Scout Troops alike have been top-rope climbing for decades. Routes vary from 5.6 (beginner) to 5.12a (advanced). If you’re lucky, you’ll see local dirtbags climbing upside down on an overhang. Generally, Allenbrook is full of hikers, photographers, and amateur climbers like me.
In college, you’d find me climbing military routes on Yonah Mountain in North Georgia and amongst the graffiti in Alabama’s Sand Rock. I spent a considerable amount of time in the backcountry in college. Don’t get me wrong, I never missed a game between the hedges, but Mother Nature had my number.
As much as I enjoyed rock climbing, I became obsessed with scaling a frozen waterfall. I dreamed of lactic acid coursing like lava through my veins with my spine as cold as an icicle. I wanted to test myself in the most extreme environment.
My friends and I had an annual Colorado ski trip that started after graduating. We’d rent a ski-in ski-out lodge, stock it like Keith Richard’s dressing room, and go nonstop for a week.
One year’s junket was to Vail, and we had a BLAST! Big dinners, great music, and endless laughter.
Before we left, I asked my climbing buddies, “What do y’all think about doing some ice climbing?” Tommy spoke for everyone when he squarely replied, “F*ck Yeah.” I hired a guide and started training like a madman.
We spent the first three days on the slopes. The back bowls lived up to the hype, the Village was hopping, and 47 inches of snow fell that week. That’s not a typo: four feet of powder.
Tommy, Greg, Stephen, and I woke up early on the fourth morning to every couch filled with bodies in various stages of disrepair and a kitchen table covered in whiskey bottles and playing cards.
We met our guide after a hearty breakfast, and before we knew it, we were exploring parts of the Rockies few get to see.
And then a towering cathedral of ice emerged. Trapped deep inside was a translucent kaleidoscope of lilac, jade, and periwinkle. We stood under its hypnotic spell until our guide shouted, “Let’s climb!”
I was plagued with a litany of what-ifs. Numero uno being, “What if I fall and one of these axes punctures my abdomen?” In my mind’s eye, I was hanging like a piñata while blood poured out like wine from a decanter.
The dynamics of an ice axe in motion are initially awkward, but eventually, it takes on an elegance of its own. Be that as it may, pounding ice axes into a sixty-foot-tall icicle is mayhem. Against all common sense, you’re kicking razor-sharp blades into it as well. What starts as a discombobulated mess morphs into a dance between you and an icy stalactite.
I’m Wearing the Orange Jacket
Fear dissipates as you increase in elevation. The mountains become silent, except for the eerie sound of ice contracting, and total immersion takes over. The frontal lobes become myopically focused as the hippocampus absorbs an alternate reality. Every part of your being knows this is insane, but it’s mainlining dopamine. Your mental faculties are simultaneously on par with an F1 driver and a Deadhead on peyote. Nothing makes sense, and everything makes sense at the same time.
I realized a few things as I approached the top. First, I was grateful for the training leading up to the climb. And second, I wasn’t going to find an adjective that could accurately explain the feeling. The best I can offer; I enjoyed it more than skydiving. Ultimately, I reached the top without impaling myself.
I hung up my climbing shoes years ago, but it wasn’t a conscious decision. Life unfolded, as it’s prone to. My kids were born, and to no one’s surprise, golf and squash took over. But I still find time for the backcountry. I enjoy fly fishing with a cigar and hiking by myself. To take a page from Ol’ Blue Eyes, “Nice and easy does it” with recreation these days. There’s not much sand left in the “doing dangerous shit” hourglass.
That being said, climbing Mt. Rainer, Grand Teton, and Mt. Evans is on my to-do list. And I’m going to hike the Haute Route with my son when he gets older. God willing, he’ll acquire a love for adventure and danger. Alex Lowe said it best, “When you remove the risk, you remove the challenge. And when you remove the challenge, you wither on the vine.”
Clothing I Wore:
- Patagonia Ice Nine Gore-Tex Jacket
- Patagonia Snap-T
- Patagonia Midweight Capilene Long Sleeve Shirt
- Marmot Gore-Tex Pants
- Patagonia Midweight Capilene Bottoms
- The North Face Gore Windstopper Ear Flap Beanie
- The North Face Gore Windstopper Gloves
- Smartwool Socks
- Vasque Skywalker Boots
*The guide provided the helmet, harness, ice axes, mountaineering boots, and crampons
Contributor Bradley A. Evans is a good buddy, a UGA grad, and an idea guy.
Alex Lowe Ice Climbing an Iceberg in Antarctica
