I was in Boulder — sunny, safe, rock climbing central — when I talked to Mark. He mentioned ice climbing. In Hyalite Canyon. In Montana. I would have to get boots and crampons and all that shit. He had tools I could borrow. After a few days of swinging them, I forked over the cash and bought a pair. I liked it.
Then I lost my toenails. I remember being a little alarmed when I took my boots off and saw purple down there. Everyone else was ripping into pizza and beer after a long day of climbing; I was staring at toes that looked like the aftermath of an Alaskan epic.
I remember being surprised and happy when I kicked the bottom stair in the garage barefoot and ripped one toenail half off. Goddamn thing hung on though. While looking down at the bleeding mess, I realized it didn’t hurt at all — it was already dead. I taped down the massive flappers, walked pigeon toed for a few months and, as the smell worsened, I finally realized they had to go.
Everyone told me I shouldn’t do it myself – so many that I believed them.
Finally, on Christmas Eve, I … READ MORE >
