Bi-Polar Odyssey

“If everything around you were in doubt, could you still trust yourself?”
Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now

The strongest relationship in my life has been with what I can only refer to as the conscious universe. Imagine feeling the earth’s pain, getting messages from the stars, or having a conversation with the moon. These things can happen, but only if you can let go of what you have been programmed to think of as impossible…

At the age of twenty-two, I was diagnosed with Manic-Depression, or what has now become known as Bi-Polar Disorder. Anyone who has suffered from what our culture refers to as “mental illness” will tell you that living with one literally takes over your life. You spend your energy dealing with the instability in your psyche or in your life, and most of the time, both. You’re not sure if you belong on the planet or if you do, if you should bother to stay. You have a hard time relating to other people, partly because your mind works differently from theirs, but mostly because other people cannot relate to the levels of despair and anxiety that are your constant companions. After a time, you come to realize that what anchors you to this world and helps you move blocked energy is ritual, rhythm, and movement.

I learned early on that the easiest way to incorporate these essential elements into my life was through regular exercise. In those days, I had a hard time sitting still, and an even harder time reigning in the wild tendencies of my psyche. I would spend my time alternating between deep introspective periods and rigorous physical output. At that time, I was only a few years away from discovering ice climbing; the arena that would engage both aspects of my being in equal measure, and provide me with the grounding to make different, and better, choices in my life.

People with mental illness have a higher incidence of homelessness, drug addiction, and criminal behaviour. By the time I was approaching thirty, I was living year-round in my truck, trying unsuccessfully to self-medicate my depression, and supporting myself by socially unacceptable means. All of this changed when at the age of twenty-eight, I was introduced to the world of climbing waterfall ice. For the first time, I felt joy, without the aid of a mind-altering substance.

It is a well-established fact that people who suffer from depression have low levels of dopamine and endorphins in their brains. People who suffer from these low levels of “happy chemicals” require a higher level of stimulation to trigger these chemicals naturally. When my psychiatrist prescribed Lithium to help modulate the wild pendulum ride of my moods, I went home and threw the prescription in the garbage. Six years later, when I felt the surge of hormones and natural chemicals in my body as I scaled my first frozen waterfall, I knew I had found an activity that incorporated enough risk and intense physical output to help adjust my moods naturally.

Psychologists have studied people who are attracted to risky behaviour. They discovered that these individuals are not content with the flat line emotional state that our culture adores and promotes. Instead, these people need more intense experiences to keep them fully engaged in life. So whether I was evading suicidal tendencies or indulging my mania, ice climbing became a balancing influence on both fronts. It was the perfect outlet for the intensity that I lived with every day, but had no idea how to constructively channel. Above all, it was the only place where my mind ceased its endless onslaught and I could stay focused on the present moment. Within two years of being introduced to the sport, I had replaced my unhealthy lifestyle choices with daily doses of fresh air and sunshine. I had never felt more alive.

I found the world of ice climbing populated with others who were more or less just like me. They wanted more from everyday reality, and they were willing to endure discomfort and risk in order to get it. In discovering ice climbing, I found a tribe of people that I could connect with, even if it was simply to share my joy and passion for an activity that was altering the way I looked at myself and the world. But more importantly, ice climbing was helping to move energy through my body and increase the levels of neurotransmitters that I so desperately needed to stay on top of my moods and stay focused on the present.

No sooner had I discovered ice climbing than I began spending most of my time on the Icefields Parkway, a section of highway in the heart of the Canadian Rockies that has been billed as one of the top ten most scenic drives in the world. At 230 kilometres (143 miles) long, it connects the mountain towns of Jasper and Lake Louise. Ice climbers from all over the world know this area because it sports some of the longest and highest quality waterfall ice climbs in the world: Slipstream, Polar Circus, and Weeping Pillar.

The bottom section of Weeping Wall, where Weeping Pillar is located, is the size of a football field, and on any given winter’s day you can see several parties climbing up the different routes. During the summer months water seeps slowly down the surface of the cliff, hence its name. On my first visit to this area I felt a kinship with the name, and because the climb was only a ten minute walk from the highway, it became the ascent of choice on many an outing.

At first I top-roped Weeping Wall, following my partners up the four pitches to the snow ledge that separated the lower wall from the upper tier. Then I systematically led every line on the wall, from the easier Left-Hand route to the Central Pillar. Each time I topped out, I would wonder when the day would come where I would climb the grade six adjunct to what was becoming one of my favourite playgrounds of ice.
It was not until ten years after I had picked up my first ice tool that I led Weeping Pillar. I had already climbed a few of the grade six test-pieces that I had dreamed about climbing. It was late season, and the south-facing climb was fading fast in the long spring days.

The morning dawned cold and clear as my partners and I approached the climb. I had known Sean Elliott from my early climbing days in Jasper, and had just met his friend David Edgar the previous month. We had met in Jasper with the aim of climbing what remained of the season’s longer ice routes, and the guys had offered to give me every crux lead of the trip. It was late March, and we had three days together. We decided to be progressive in our choices. We spent the first day out on the west highway on a beautiful climb called “Aussi Beau que c’en a l’Aire”. Day two was spent on “Curtain Call”, a climb that had always intimidated me, even on a top rope. We saved the longest and hardest route, Weeping Pillar, for our last day together.

Sean had been on the climb the week before, and he warned me about the conditions I would encounter on the crux pitch: “It’s unconsolidated, chandeliered. You’ll need to work to find good pro. I didn’t like it, but you’ll love it.” I was impressed with his confidence in my abilities. “Well”, I said, “Let’s get up there and have a look at it.”

We literally flew up the lower wall, lining up our leads so that I would end up with the final pitch. From the top of the lower wall, we hiked the twenty minutes up to the base of the upper wall. Three steep long pitches lay in front of us. Dave led his pitch and brought Sean and I up. Sean led his pitch and brought Dave and I up. My focus was on being efficient on these pitches so that I could retain as much strength as possible for what would turn out to be the hardest lead of my ice climbing career.

As soon as we reached the belay I re-racked the screws on my harness as Dave handed me the ones on his. I looked up at what I could see of the pitch, and realized that Sean’s description could not have been more accurate. The ice quality deteriorated sharply from the previous two pitches. I could see sections of sun-baked ice alternating with chandeliered ice. Sean’s voice broke into my thoughts: “I told you it was pretty sketchy.”

I finished racking my slings and screws as Dave put me on belay. “I’ll head up and see how I feel. It looks like there’s enough good ice to keep me protected in between the dubious sections.” I nodded to Dave, and he lifted his right hand to show me that he was ready to belay. And with that, I was off.

In climbing there are so many elements to trust: the gear, your partner, the medium. But all this counts for moot if you don’t trust yourself, your skills, and your judgment. Belief in self can pull you through the seemingly impossible when it rears its daunting head before you.

The beauty is to approach a climb and know very little about what you will encounter. You carry with you your skills and experience from which to draw the card that fits the hand. You compare a pitch to one you’ve climbed before: you see a challenge through the eyes of a past success.

I carefully moved my body out and to the right of the belay. Years of experience were now with me. My feelings of intimidation faded as soon as I started to climb. I became so fully engaged with the process that nothing else entered the space of my psyche. I felt at peace.

The pitch turned out to be the hardest lead I’d ever done, but I felt confident in my abilities. The ice quality was bad, the pro sketchy: it’s the kind of pitch I swore I would never lead. But I was different then, I was the girl who thought every decision she made brought her closer to demise. Now I move within a new form: still me and yet more me. I am infused with a trust of self the likes of which I have never known. I stay present, calmly within myself. I don’t enter into the dance of fear that once ruled my life.

In my twenty years of therapy, ice climbing gets top billing as the agent in my personal transformation. It is the avenue through which I deepened my relationship with the living landscape, and it provided me with a crucible for my healing journey. To this day, I feel deep joy in the simple ritual of gearing up at the base of a climb, in the rhythmic sound of my tools hitting ice, and in the balanced movement of my body moving up a frozen waterfall.

This article also appears in the latest issue of the new women’s climbing online magazine, Alpine Athena.