Jim Donini's war wounds

At noon we reach the base of Poincenot's imposing North Face. We're not moving very fast. Snow and ice from last night's dump fill the cracks. Jim hacks the rock free of ice with his ice-hammer and wedges his hands and feet into cold cracks. The four rope-lengths of Jim's lead are in a big, shady corner, and the sun's rays don't strike it. We make hard, tedious progress and reach a ledge atop the fourth pitch at 6 p.m., hours later than we had hoped.

Dreaming of a First Ascent

Enough light remains to fix our ropes above the ledge. I lead the next section, just like on our first attempt. These are the first ascent pitches I have always dreamed of doing. The sun's been on this section, and it's dry and free of ice. These perfect, untouched cracks in coarse yellow granite would hold their own on the Cookie in Yosemite. I suddenly feel good about the world; all the quality first ascents have not yet been done. I'm in heaven as I romp up three pitches of fingers, hands, fists, offwidths, and chimneys. A few moves of aid take me around a large square-cut roof to a hanging belay. From there our two ropes just stretch down to the broad ledge.

Back on the ledge we enjoy our standard dinner of noodles, butter and tuna, and lay out our sleeping gear.

At 5 a.m. we are moving upward again. A thin, high layer of gray obscures the sky, but there's no wind. We leave our bivi-gear behind to climb unencumbered. We plan to summit and descend back to this ledge in one push.

I go up the fixed ropes first to organize the top anchor. Jim comes up and leads a long pitch of intricate stemming and jamming. As we gain altitude we can see over the mountain ridge to the west onto the vast Southern Patagonian Ice Cap, the largest non-polar expanse of ice on the planet. Soaring mountains and brilliant white paint the entire western horizon. Looking at the ice cap framed by Desmochada on the right and the Northwest Buttress of Poincenot on the left is like looking through a magnifying glass - the Ice Cap seems but a reach away.

Contemplating Cracks

Jim gets his hero lead next - 35 meters of strenuous squeeze chimneying. Protection is sparse. My belay is a comfortable seat of yellow granite. While the rope runs steadily out I yell up at Jim, "Don't forget long slings on the pro so the rope hangs out of that thing. I won't be able to jumar the pack up inside."

A series of grunts come down the crack. I jumar the pitch easily.

"Great lead, stud. You keep serving 'em up."

"Look Greg, that lead got us way above the ledge we bivied on in that storm." Down and to the right it looks minuscule.

Two pitches of stunning crack climbing come my way. I jam hands and fists while sweeps of granite fall away beneath my feet. Far below the granite meets slopes of snow and ice.

Above, Jim deals with two more hard pitches of chimneying. He avoids both cruxes with moves on flakes to the left of the chimney.

I get paid back on my next lead, about mid-afternoon. Up 15 meters of perfect hand crack I go, until the crack pinches off and ends. Jim takes the rope tight through my top Alien.

Over to the right, around a corner, there is another crack, but I can't tell what it's like. Jim lowers me and I swing over to check it out. Stunned, I stare in silence at an awful five-inch slot.

"Jim, it's a Medal-of-Honor pitch!"

None of our protection is big enough. If I blow it, it'll be a bone-crushing fall. I screw up my courage.

I cuss my way up the crack sweating with fear. After a few meters of progress I'm committed to going up - down climbing this horrible slot is unthinkable.