Kicking,‌ ‌Swinging,‌ ‌Trusting:‌ ‌Learning‌ ‌to‌ ‌Ice‌ ‌Climb‌ ‌in‌ ‌Michigan's‌ ‌Upper‌ ‌Peninsula‌ ‌

On a Saturday morning in late February, as the sun begins to warm the icy sky, I step up to “The Curtains,” a roughly 100-foot-wide ice formation, in Michigan’s Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. My crampons crunch the frozen ground. Water trickles and echoes, ever so gently, all along the wall. Save for a solo ice climber, our group of four is alone. Only our movement and voices stir the chilled air.

We’re a short hike up from Sand Point Road along the coast of Munising Bay and Lake Superior. I set my pack down, slide into my harness and fix my crampons to my boots. I breathe in the morning peace of this space. The orchestra of blue ice—formed by groundwater that seeps out of the sandstone and gradually freezes into these beautiful, waterfall-like features—fascinates me. Nature is so intricate. Every year, this ice forms over time, always only doing so in the span of a few months. I’m in awe of how the seasons change, how nature changes with them and how we only ever witness and experience a fraction of that annual ebb and flow.

Following an overview from our guide Tatum, Liz climbs first. She approaches the wall, steadies her feet and starts to chip away at the ice, one axe at a time. Liz ice climbed on Washington’s Mount Baker as a teenager. With the exception of that experience, ice climbing is new to all three of us, so with Tatum’s guidance and support, we’re digging in and learning to kick, swing and trust as we go.

Image via Beth Price

Our first climbs are admittedly a bit awkward and clumsy, as we get the hang of using and trusting our tools and bodies in this way and learn to feel our connection to the ice. To our credit—and that of anyone who ice climbs in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula—Tatum tells us, “If you can climb on Michigan ice, you can climb ice anywhere.” Michigan winters are long and often brutally cold. Most of the Upper Peninsula’s ice climbing lies along Lake Superior, and the combination of cold temperatures and lake-effect weather produces delicate, brittle and unyielding ice, which is tough to climb.

Throughout Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore and Grand Island, there are more than 250 formations that attract climbers of all skill levels—from beginner to professional. In the past 10 years, a handful of films on ice climbing in the Upper Peninsula have put this area on the map as an ice climbing mecca. In fact, it was a year ago, at No Man's Land Film Festival in Puerto Natales, Chile, that I saw Superior Ice, an ice climbing film with Angela VanWiemeersch and Sasha DiGiulian here in the Upper Peninsula.

This morning, in time, through a mix of trial, error and success, Liz gets in a rhythm and reaches the top of the climb. Tatum lowers her, and I’m up next.

Image via Beth Price

In my gloved hands, I take the end of the rope that’s hanging along the ice, tie a figure-eight knot, thread the end through my harness and weave it back through the knot. I check my work and pull it snug. Tatum double-checks my harness, helmet and knot. I check his harness, helmet, GRIGRI and the rope.

These motions are familiar, and it feels so good to be roping in for a climb again, albeit a climb far different from anything I’ve done before. My climbing experience is limited to rock climbing, and only a few years at that. This weekend, in a place I love and in the company of two good friends and our guide, I’m learning to ice climb for the first time—and I’m stoked.

I lift the two ice axes from the ice at the base of the climb and find my footing in front of the ice wall. Walking on ice is weird, an adjustment; I don’t fully trust my crampons on it. I take a few practice swings with the axes, trying to understand the motion and the feeling.

Image via Beth Price

I turn back to Tatum. “On belay?” I ask.

“Belay on,” he confirms.

“Climbing.”

“Climb on.”

I kick my right foot and then my left into the ice at the base of the climb. I look up, studying the wall in front of me. I take my right axe, narrow in on a spot and swing at the ice. A few chunks fly off the wall. Water droplets chill my already cool face. My hold doesn’t feel solid, so I swing the axe again. It sticks. There’s a sharp sound and sturdy feeling that echoes through my ice axe and my body when the pick gets lodged in the ice just right. I swing my left axe a few times—aiming for that sound and feeling of connection—and hit my mark.

With guidance from Tatum and encouragement from Beth and Liz, I get in a groove and gradually, and a bit awkwardly, move up the ice. I repeatedly swing my arms and kick my feet, shaving off little chunks of ice as I go. Occasionally, they hit my face and jacket. A few feet off the ground, I strike the axes into the wall and lift my left foot. As I move to kick it into the ice, my axes and right foot simultaneously break free.

Woosh! I slip down the wall. My harness and the rope catch me, and just like that, I’m essentially back to square one. I hang in the air for a moment with my feet against the wall and shake out my arms. As I take a breather, Tatum, Beth and Liz share feedback and encouragement. Our morning is full of chatter, laughter, excited energy and warmth. It sets the tone for our weekend, one of friendship and new adventures among land and water—both frozen and not—we all love.

Image via Beth Price

As I sit in my harness and catch my breath, I’m reminded of something I wrote when I first started rock climbing: Learning something new is humbling. I am reminded how difficult but also exciting it is to start something new, to be completely out of my element and starting from scratch, especially in the outdoors. There is a steep learning curve, and I am reminded that, as is the case with so many things in life, it is not about the destination but rather the journey. Learning something new is a humbling process. That process is a battle and a dance that altogether exists outside and within us. It is challenging and simultaneously exciting, beautiful and rewarding.

As Tatum, Beth and Liz chat below me, I take a deep breath, study the wall of ice before me and begin the process all over again, this time starting with holds for my ice axes. Swing. Swing. Kick. Kick. Stand up. Swing. Swing. Kick. Kick. Stand up. It doesn’t always flow this smoothly—I often repeat these actions multiple times—though this is the rhythm I seek.

About halfway up this first climb, my arms are exhausted. With every swing, I can feel my forearms burning. For me, that’s one of the most noticeable differences between this and rock climbing. As you’re starting out and learning this sport, I feel you exert so much more energy than rock climbing as you swing your ice axe, miss and are forced to swing again. Sometimes, again and again and again. I imagine that with time and practice those swings and hits become more calculated and predictable, and today, I have a newfound appreciation and respect for ice climbers and their grace, strength and stamina.

I swing at the wall and miss. Again. My arms are crying—screaming—for a break. I need a rest.

Image via Beth Price

“Take,” I yell to Tatum. I sit back in my harness, steady my breathing and let my arms and the ice axes dangle below me. I loosely shake them out. Tatum tells me I can rest the axes on my shoulders and shake my arms and hands. I do just that.

I’m not nervous or anxious, and the temperature is just right. In truth, I feel quite calm and patient. Of course, I’d love to have this down right off the bat, though I had no expectations this would play out like that. On this and subsequent climbs, I can see how ice climbing is an art and, like so many elements of life, is a lesson in practice and perseverance.

We were and are all beginners at some point with something, and so, we must remember to not take ourselves so seriously or expect so much of ourselves, especially when we’re starting out. We must practice patience and grace with ourselves—and others. We have to check our egos at the door, let go and learn to enjoy the process with its upward momentum and downward slides.

In life, work and adventure, my ego has gotten in the way more than once—sometimes landing me, and others, in some less-than-ideal situations. In recent years, I’ve learned some tough-but-good-and-important lessons in getting honest with myself, owning what I know and even more so what I don’t know and communicating that to others—family, friends, colleagues, companions in adventure and more. Admittedly, I’m still not great at this, though I am progressing. This way of thinking and being is an evolution for me. I’m a constant work in process. I climb, fall, rest and get back up again.

Image via Beth Price

Today, on this first go, I climb, fall, rest—several times—and eventually reach the top of this 20-foot climb and take in the view all around me.

“The Curtains” lies within a forest. Through the tops of the barren trees, I can see the ice and snow that covers Munising Bay and Lake Superior, the largest of the Great Lakes. The orange rope trails up the ice and over a ridge above me. Below me, among the ice, snow and our scattered packs, stand Tatum, Beth and Liz.

We are so fortunate to have struck an ideal weekend here in Munising. The sun is out. The sky is blue. The temperature hovers in the 30s. Later this afternoon, someone will spot a bald eagle soaring overhead. It’s an incredible winter day.

I am simply in awe of how beautiful and diverse—in terms of landscape, at least—Michigan, my precious state, is. As we crossed the Mackinac Bridge and entered the Upper Peninsula yesterday, it felt as though we were entering another country. Winter in the Upper Peninsula is simultaneously desolate and delightful.

Image via Beth Price

Over the span of two days—today in the frontcountry, tomorrow in the backcountry at an ice formation called “Swamp Thing” along the Lakeshore Trail—Beth, Liz and I take turns ice climbing. It seems we each get better with every climb, though we also become more tired. As I go, I gradually connect the dots and make sense of this new-to-me sport. Far from perfect, I am enjoying the process of learning something new alongside three fun-loving adventurers in a spectacular and inspiring space.

Image via Beth Price

On Sunday afternoon, as we hike out from “Swamp Thing” in a forest that hugs the coast of Lake Superior, the sky opens up. It sends a gentle rain, light hail and eventually fluffy snow our way. Riding a high from this weekend of new adventures and deepening friendships in a magical landscape, I cannot help but smile and feel grateful for the opportunity to explore, make mistakes, learn, grow and so much more alongside people I love, respect, admire and simply enjoy spending time and sharing a laugh with. I am grateful for this life and the people, places, adventures and processes within it, however humbling they may be.

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Author’s note: We booked our trip (one day in the frontcountry, one day in the backcountry) with Tatum, who is an experienced, professional, informative, supportive and down-to-earth guide, through Michigan Ice Fest Guides and Down Wind Sports in Munising, Michigan. For anyone looking to ice climb in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, I would highly recommend starting with Michigan Ice Fest Guides and Down Wind Sports. An Ice Climber’s Guide to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula by Matt Abbotts, Jon Jugenheimer and Bill Thompson is a great resource as well.

Unfortunately, we encountered loud, disrespectful visitors and trash during our first day in the park. On our second, we encountered trash—ramen noodles, a cigarette butt and aluminum foil—in the backcountry. Be it ice climbing, rock climbing, a hike or any outdoor activity, remember to recreate responsibly and with respect for the land you’re on, the local wildlife, other people and yourself. Recreate Responsibly and Leave No Trace are two good places to start and expand your research and education.