The following is excerpted from from Laura Waterman’s Losing the Garden: The Story of a Marriage, a Suicide, and a New Life of Self-Discovery (second edition, February 2025) from SUNY Press, Excelsior Editions.
Laura shares: “You will recognize my title, 'An Easy Day for a Lady,' words spoken by A.F. Mummery, who made the first ascent of the Aiguille du Grépon in 1881 by the famous crack named for him. Miriam O'Brien and Alice Damesme's ascent was on August 17, 1929.”
By Laura Waterman
March 15, 1975.
The ice climb that meant the most to Guy and me was the Black Dike, the route that the world-renowned climber Yvon Chouinard described as “a black, filthy, horrendous icicle 600 feet high.“ It occupied the shadowy void separating the Whitney-Gilman arete from the rest of Cannon Cliff in Franconia Notch. The sun never shone on this north-facing strip of ice-and-snow-plastered rock, a “frozen maelstrom of malignancy,“ as Guy called it. It just sat there in the gloom, the ultimate dare for any ice climber.
On our first attempt in March 1975, we didn’t even reach the bottom of the ice. We arrived at dawn to find Franconia Notch enjoying its own private blizzard, but we walked up the snow-covered talus slope anyway because, who knew, it might suddenly clear. It took us fifteen minutes to strap on our crampons— normally a four-minute job — because of the swirling snow.
We’d seen, with some surprise, another car in the parking lot. Now we heard scuffling and calling from a party directly above us, in the act of rappelling down the Whitney-Gilman route. This turned out to be Andy Tuthill, a young climber of our acquaintance, the only guy we’d expect to see out on a day like this. Andy, crampons scraping on the rock, landed beside us with a thump and said, ”Hi.“ Then he began coiling up his rope.
If it wasn’t a day for Andy, it certainly wasn’t a day for us, but I began uncoiling our rope anyway, getting ready to belay Guy up the snow ramp that led to the first pitch of the Black Dike, when suddenly, appearing from behind us out of the mist, up strode Big John Bragg. The only other climber we weren’t surprised to see up here.
We suggested that John precede us up the Dike, since he was a party
of one (and a much better climber) and would move faster. Meanwhile, Guy was cramponing up the snow ramp when we heard an unmistakable woomf and the snow sheared off, taking Guy with it. He whizzed past John, who leaned out to grab Guy by the scruff of his neck but stopped himself, considering what might happen to him if he grabbed hold of a fast-moving object. The mini-avalanche petered out; Guy stood up, and we exchanged looks that said, Enough of this nonsense.
"Why don’t you come over to my cabin and have a hot drink," Andy said.
Indeed!
As we headed back down the talus slope, we kept looking back up into the swirl. Our last view was of Big John Bragg hanging on his ice tools, head bent, parka hood up, as the spindrift passed over him.
"He’s off to Patagonia day after tomorrow," Andy said. That explained it.
We were back a few days later. The weather was with us, and this was lucky because we were terribly slow. On the second pitch I stood, my back to the ice, belaying Guy for two and a half hours as he tried a way that turned into a cul-de-sac; he had to down-climb and try another. During that long belay, as I wiggled my toes in my boots to ward off the cold, I tracked the sun as it moved along the cliff face on the opposite wall. Occasionally huge icicles would drop and crash down to the talus slope.
I climbed the last steep pitch in fading light, and it was hard. We were using long axes then, and my arms were tired; I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life flailing away on that last bit of steep ice. I was mad at myself that my wrists had turned to jelly. When I finally popped over the top onto firm ground Guy reached for me in an enveloping hug. Suddenly he was sobbing, his wet face against mine. Perhaps at that moment he sensed, in the way we can know the unforeseeable, that the climbing wasn’t going to get any better. Like that ultimate football match between the orphans and campers so long ago, Guy had given this great climb all his energy, concentration, and desire. There had been less than a handful of previous ascents, none by a woman. Perhaps Guy had seen that together we had reached a summit, and that the long path ahead lay only downhill.
Pick a copy of Losing the Garden here.
Feature Image: Laura and Guy Waterman at the top of Pinnacle Gully on Mt. Washington, after Laura led it. Winter 1977. Photo: Laura Waterman Collection