As we neared the gully marking the start of the climb, we were already warm. During the last half-hour we had encountered steep snow with loose gravel, making us work more for less progress. Thirty-minutes ago the gully didn't look that impressive, but nearing it changed perspective: although the entire first pitch of the climb was low angle, the climb progressed into steeper terrain, funnelling into a chimney capped by a roof. All of a sudden it looked less easy.
André approaching pitch 1 on day 1. (Photo Credit: Hendrik Schaal)
After changing clothes, sorting gear, and putting on a harness and crampons, I started up the climb. I passed the piton that marked the official start and my motor began working. The snow here was firm allowing me to really gain distance and height. This soon ended though and I was forced to dig deep. I stepped up and slid back repeatedly, making no progress while destroying possible future steps. I had to change technique: Stemming.
As weird as it sounds, stemming through the snow was the way to go. Somehow trying to stem between non-existent feet on either “side” did not lead to collapsing snow and even allowed upward progression. To this day, I am amazed that it worked.
Eventually I reached a real first step. The protruding rock was only two meters (six feet) high, but, because it was covered by snow, holds were not visible. The walls to either side looked featureless as well. Even protection was non-existent. But that didn't matter. Underneath there was almost-bottomless snow to act as a crashpad in case of a fall. Beneath this step was hip-deep snow, so I rationalized that falling here would not hurt, and I wouldn't tumble down the terrain, so I committed. Two moves later I was stemming my way through deep snow again.
The next step was five meters (about 16 feet) protected by a piton at the start. That was the first real climbing on the route. It brought us up to an uncomfortable bolted belay. I anchored myself and my buddy was fast following.
Next, we swapped leads and he quickly moved up the more sustained second pitch, which had the hardest sections protected by bolts. I did not feel that comfortable following. I almost fell when some frozen turf (imagine a bit of soil with grass) gave way and my ice tool couldn't grab the loose rocks beneath. This left me a little unsettled, in anticipation of me leading the third, crux pitch.
As weird as it sounds, stemming through the snow was the way to go. Somehow trying to stem between non-existent feet on either “side” did not lead to collapsing snow and even allowed upward progression. To this day, I am amazed that it worked.
Eventually I reached a real first step. The protruding rock was only two meters (six feet) high, but, because it was covered by snow, holds were not visible. The walls to either side looked featureless as well. Even protection was non-existent. But that didn't matter. Underneath there was almost-bottomless snow to act as a crashpad in case of a fall. Beneath this step was hip-deep snow, so I rationalized that falling here would not hurt, and I wouldn't tumble down the terrain, so I committed. Two moves later I was stemming my way through deep snow again.
The next step was five meters (about 16 feet) protected by a piton at the start. That was the first real climbing on the route. It brought us up to an uncomfortable bolted belay. I anchored myself and my buddy was fast following.
Next, we swapped leads and he quickly moved up the more sustained second pitch, which had the hardest sections protected by bolts. I did not feel that comfortable following. I almost fell when some frozen turf (imagine a bit of soil with grass) gave way and my ice tool couldn't grab the loose rocks beneath. This left me a little unsettled, in anticipation of me leading the third, crux pitch.
André leading his first mixed pitch, pitch 2 on day 1. (Photo Credit: Hendrik Schaal)
As I neared my buddy at the belay, I got a glimpse of pitch three. The challenge began right off the deck and consisted of a flaring chimney capped by a roof. Icicles hung like spears, the largest being around two meters long and the thickness of my wrist. Above the roof, a crack progressed into lower angle terrain.
At the belay I rested for a minute and reminded myself that I was capable of onsighting the grade - but unknown terrain always heightens the senses. I assessed the order of tasks ahead of me, and the first was to remove the icicles that blocked my entrance to the chimney. Fortunately, the bottoms were close, minimizing the risks to my partner below as the spears were removed. Loud tonks signalled the ice hitting the ground.
Getting established in the flaring chimney took some time and maneuvering, but it felt secure once positioned. Getting wedged in was key, as I could not clip the first bolt without gaining height, which left my buddy at risk underneath. A fall would mean a collision with him and my crampons.
After clipping the first bolt, my body position shifted bit more outside the chimney and the rock become overhung. I managed to jam my hand into a crack, which held surprisingly well, enabling me to work my feet up and clean some snow from the slab above the roof. Beneath the slab was ice. As I tried to swing my tool softly at it, it detached and went. I held my breath as it hurled past my belayer. It fell cleanly.
A huge hook appeared in the crack above, making progress easy and I clipped the second bolt. Another huge hook appeared, allowing me to establish my feet on the now-cleared slab. The move was sketchy, but it worked. Above, hooks in the crack were scarce. Barely-there footholds could be found on either side of a dihedral. Slowly but steadily, I found small imperfections in the rock and – if it held – the ice to gain some height.
I was so engaged I barely noticed that my last protection was quite a bit below. Luckily the crack took a Camalot, protecting the hard moves above. Next, I encountered ice protected by a bolt, with the subsequent moves missing protection all together - although the guide book promised a bolt. There was no choice but commitment upwards over more snow-covered slabs. The steep angle finally eased and, with relief, I was back to stemming through snow to the next and final belay.
The descent required multiple rappels, which allowed me to take in the vistas and reflect on the day while waiting at each rap station. My buddy had led his first real pitch of mixed climbing and I had onsighted another quite good grade for me. It was an accomplishment for both of us to be proud of.
At the belay I rested for a minute and reminded myself that I was capable of onsighting the grade - but unknown terrain always heightens the senses. I assessed the order of tasks ahead of me, and the first was to remove the icicles that blocked my entrance to the chimney. Fortunately, the bottoms were close, minimizing the risks to my partner below as the spears were removed. Loud tonks signalled the ice hitting the ground.
Getting established in the flaring chimney took some time and maneuvering, but it felt secure once positioned. Getting wedged in was key, as I could not clip the first bolt without gaining height, which left my buddy at risk underneath. A fall would mean a collision with him and my crampons.
After clipping the first bolt, my body position shifted bit more outside the chimney and the rock become overhung. I managed to jam my hand into a crack, which held surprisingly well, enabling me to work my feet up and clean some snow from the slab above the roof. Beneath the slab was ice. As I tried to swing my tool softly at it, it detached and went. I held my breath as it hurled past my belayer. It fell cleanly.
A huge hook appeared in the crack above, making progress easy and I clipped the second bolt. Another huge hook appeared, allowing me to establish my feet on the now-cleared slab. The move was sketchy, but it worked. Above, hooks in the crack were scarce. Barely-there footholds could be found on either side of a dihedral. Slowly but steadily, I found small imperfections in the rock and – if it held – the ice to gain some height.
I was so engaged I barely noticed that my last protection was quite a bit below. Luckily the crack took a Camalot, protecting the hard moves above. Next, I encountered ice protected by a bolt, with the subsequent moves missing protection all together - although the guide book promised a bolt. There was no choice but commitment upwards over more snow-covered slabs. The steep angle finally eased and, with relief, I was back to stemming through snow to the next and final belay.
The descent required multiple rappels, which allowed me to take in the vistas and reflect on the day while waiting at each rap station. My buddy had led his first real pitch of mixed climbing and I had onsighted another quite good grade for me. It was an accomplishment for both of us to be proud of.
ABOVE (click to enlarge): The top of our objective on day 1. (Photo Credit: Hendrik Schaal)
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When I (re-)started climbing several years ago, I became inspired by the great alpinists and climbers - Messner, Hermann Buhl, Walter Bonatti, Heinrich Harrer and so on. These legends pulled my curiosity into the majestic mountains that grace the southern border of Germany and fill the spaces of Switzerland and numerous European countries - the Alps. I wanted to climb the rock classics of the Alps, those around UIAA 6 (5.9/5.10).
When buying a pair of climbing shoes in a shop in Stuttgart, Germany, I met the chairman of the German Alpine Club (Deutscher Alpenverein - DAV), Dieter Porsche. While bringing us shoes to try on, he told tales - epics on great walls. He showed us a book, "Im extremen Fels“, which served as his inspiration. The book featured 100 climbing routes in the Alps, from France to Slovenia. First released in the 1970s, it quickly became a classic among climbers in German speaking countries. Rare first editions of the book go for 300€, but luckily it was reprinted in 2016 and 2023, inspiring a new generation of climbers.
The book's format presented one route per two pages, including a stunning picture of the wall with its peak on one page, and a small, vague topo and a text explaining its history on the other. This book inspired my journey into more advanced climbing, as well as climbing on mixed terrain. One of my first "bigger" goals for mixed climbing was the north face of Rubihorn in the German Alps.
This climb is dubbed as the first proper winter climb for new alpinists in the area of southern Germany. The guidebook also said it is often underestimated, leaving room for one's imagination regarding its difficulty.
As the standard, easiest route through the north face, Rubihorn lived in my head for years, where I hyped it up and determined it was a "must do."
When buying a pair of climbing shoes in a shop in Stuttgart, Germany, I met the chairman of the German Alpine Club (Deutscher Alpenverein - DAV), Dieter Porsche. While bringing us shoes to try on, he told tales - epics on great walls. He showed us a book, "Im extremen Fels“, which served as his inspiration. The book featured 100 climbing routes in the Alps, from France to Slovenia. First released in the 1970s, it quickly became a classic among climbers in German speaking countries. Rare first editions of the book go for 300€, but luckily it was reprinted in 2016 and 2023, inspiring a new generation of climbers.
The book's format presented one route per two pages, including a stunning picture of the wall with its peak on one page, and a small, vague topo and a text explaining its history on the other. This book inspired my journey into more advanced climbing, as well as climbing on mixed terrain. One of my first "bigger" goals for mixed climbing was the north face of Rubihorn in the German Alps.
This climb is dubbed as the first proper winter climb for new alpinists in the area of southern Germany. The guidebook also said it is often underestimated, leaving room for one's imagination regarding its difficulty.
As the standard, easiest route through the north face, Rubihorn lived in my head for years, where I hyped it up and determined it was a "must do."
===
Once my buddy and I were fed and back in our room, we prepared for the next day. We were planning to do Rubihorn.
Author Hendrik Schaal looks on to the objective, Rubihorn north face, which is dubbed as the first proper winter climb for new alpinists in the area of southern Germany. (Photo Credit: Andre *)
The guidebook said to bring pitons, slings, cams, and nuts. We packed and went to sleep.
Early the next morning we hiked just under two hours to base, where we found several other parties already waiting. So did we.
When it was finally our turn, we climbed 400 meters (1300 feet) of wall in 3 hours, traffic jams included. Despite the imposing atmosphere of the north face, the climb went smoothly and, dare I say, easily. At the summit we took an extended break, seeing the sun for the first time that day. I exhaled.
Early the next morning we hiked just under two hours to base, where we found several other parties already waiting. So did we.
When it was finally our turn, we climbed 400 meters (1300 feet) of wall in 3 hours, traffic jams included. Despite the imposing atmosphere of the north face, the climb went smoothly and, dare I say, easily. At the summit we took an extended break, seeing the sun for the first time that day. I exhaled.
ABOVE: Impressions of the classic Rubihorn northface: Snow and small-ish rock steps (click to enlarge and see captions)
After the struggle and accomplishments of our previous day, completing this classic in three hours initially left me with a feeling of disappointment. I had held a vision of this climb for so long that I expected a challenge followed by an elated reward. Instead, it was too easy.
Once the let-down began to dissipate, another thought entered my mind: I could climb things I would have never dared to think I could do. I had actually become better than I was initially even able to dream.
It was then I realized how my own mind can't really fully envision something it knows nothing of.
Sure, I had read plenty of stories about others who scaled these mountains and established these climbs. But those were their stories embellished by my own ideas of the skills and mastery it took, peppered with perceptions questioning whether I could too. Although these stories opened pathways of curiosity and planted seeds for inspiration, I realized the measured steps I took to get to this moment - learning to rock climb, using crampons and an ice axe, practicing self-arrest, learning to place gear and read rock, snow, and ice, interpreting a topo. It all came together in a moment where my progress exceeded expectations - I had easily summited one of my first mixed climbing routes, Rubihorn.
Once the let-down began to dissipate, another thought entered my mind: I could climb things I would have never dared to think I could do. I had actually become better than I was initially even able to dream.
It was then I realized how my own mind can't really fully envision something it knows nothing of.
Sure, I had read plenty of stories about others who scaled these mountains and established these climbs. But those were their stories embellished by my own ideas of the skills and mastery it took, peppered with perceptions questioning whether I could too. Although these stories opened pathways of curiosity and planted seeds for inspiration, I realized the measured steps I took to get to this moment - learning to rock climb, using crampons and an ice axe, practicing self-arrest, learning to place gear and read rock, snow, and ice, interpreting a topo. It all came together in a moment where my progress exceeded expectations - I had easily summited one of my first mixed climbing routes, Rubihorn.