How I Progressed From Beginner to Climbing Guide in 3 Seasons

For years, my friend Dom had been trying to convince me that ice climbing was fun. The cold, not my friend, I hated it. The only thing that could get me out in the winter was snowboarding. But in the strange winter of 21’/22’, when COVID still loomed and everyone was trying something new, I gave in.

It was a brisk 2oF in the Flume Gorge of New Hampshire, and I was dressed like a lost snowboarder trying to find the slopes. I came equipped with a puffy jacket, baggy snow pants, and plastic boots. I was ready! Or so I thought. Dom and I had some walking to do—the trail up was straightforward until we had to do some bushwhacking to the top of the climbs to set up the rope. I was cold, my fingers and toes were starting to feel numb, and I was beginning to wonder if I had made the right choice.

But when my first swing of the ice tool hit that frozen wall, I felt something. I hit my knuckles. By the end of the day, my swings were better and my toes were dangerously numb. I was exhausted—and I was hooked.

Season of the gumby

After that first day on ice, I bought my first pair of ice tools, some Grivel Tech Machines. I started chasing ice wherever I could find it. New England is my home and that’s where I set my sights. Everything was on toprope, and everything was new. I didn’t yet know the difference between a “good” season and an “okay” one. All I knew was that I couldn’t stop.

That season, I had put all my time into ice climbing and I’d only hit the slopes once. My skepticism for this cold hobby was fading and the prospect of learning a new sport was exciting.

By the time spring rolled around, I could finally make sense of it and I understood the rhythm. Swing. Kick. Breathe. Repeat.

Season 2: A shift in climbing progression

By the winter of 2023, the obsession took hold. I upgraded my gear and devoured every bit of knowledge I could find. At the annual Smuggs Ice Bash at Vermont’s Smuggler’s Notch, I took a multi-pitch ice course.

Soon after I led my first ice route, Leprechaun’s Lament (WI 2–3) at Kinsman Notch. It was short, straightforward, and utterly terrifying. Swing after swing, my mind raced with thoughts. Would the ice screws hold if I fell? How hurt would I get? Will I even make it to the top? What am I doing? But when I reached the anchor, I felt something shift. The thoughts subsided and the sense of joy took over.

A week later, my friend Adam and I headed to Frankenstein in Crawford Notch, an ice climbers’ paradise in New Hampshire. I followed my first WI 5 Dropline; it lived up to the name. Mid-climb, I dropped one of my tools. I was embarrassed, but I finished the climb after some shenanigans. Once I composed myself, we moved through the classics, from Pegasus (WI 3+/4-) to Hobbit Couloir (WI 4+), and more. I began to grasp what mastery on ice looked like—and how far I still had to go.

Then came the climb that changed everything. I returned to Frankenstein with Janet Wilkinson—a local New Hampshire legend—for a mellow day on Standard Route (WI 3+). It’s the classic multi-pitch line in the area.

Janet handed me the sharp end for pitch one. I trusted her judgement so I went, climbing smoothly and swinging strong. I reached the belay, and before I could say a word, she told me to keep going. So I did.

After some learning moments— like how to read ice quality, the art of screw placements, and anchor building—leading the full three pitches of Standard Route felt like unlocking a new part of myself. The moves were fluid. The fear was there, but was quiet.

Season 3: Becoming the teacher

After that winter of climbing progression, I trained like someone who’d discovered purpose. Ice climbing had taken over my winters. Lifting, hanging, dry-tooling—anything that would keep my body ready.

The upcoming winter of `24, I had signed on to guide the first-ever Black Intro to Ice Climbing clinic at New Hampshire’s Mt. Washington Valley Ice Fest. I was stoked. It felt like a dream to have the opportunity to be a part of a growing community—a community I was longing for. I also agreed to teach two intro courses at Mountainfest in the Adirondacks. Everything was falling into place for an epic winter.

Luckily, the season started early with an October ascent of Pinnacle Gully (WI 3) on Mount Washington. A bluebird day, cold and bright; the kind that makes you forget your sandwich is frozen. Then came the rain—weeks of it. Warm temps washed away the ice, and my hopes for a solid season all but disappeared. But eventually, in January, winter returned.

At Mountainfest, on a frigid Friday, I toured the classics of Chapel Pond. There, I led my first WI4: Crystal Ice Tower. The route was vertical, consistent, and perfect. My friends shouted encouragement from below. When I clipped the anchor, I realized I’d been holding my breath for the last 10 feet.

I felt electric, a mix of fear, pride, and disbelief that I’d actually pulled it off. After that, the clinics went smoothly, I felt confident in what I was teaching. Swing, Kick, Breathe, Repeat.

Last season: Breaking the Glass Menagerie 

By fall 2024, I was training with intent. I became friends with fellow Arc’teryx Market Street ambassador, Pat Cooke. His basement dry-tooling wall became my training ground. And I had one clear goal: to lead WI4+.

And then, déjà vu—warm temps and rain led to a late start to the season. But when the freeze finally came, I headed for the Adirondacks. The first day was pure magic—cold, beautiful blue ice, great climbing, good company. But the second was a soaking mess. As I led Hot Shot (WI 4), water literally poured down the route. Sketchy? Sure. But also exhilarating in that “what am I doing with my life” kind of way.

Back in New Hampshire, I hit my stride. More leads, more confidence, and more long days at Frankenstein. Then came The Beast (WI 4+) at Kinsman Notch. The ice was solid and thick, the air still, and my friends shouted encouragement as I moved higher. I climbed steady, calm, and focused. When I topped out, I could barely feel my hands, but the grin on my face said it all. That same day, I led Beast Pillar (WI 4+). The next weekend, Dracula (WI 4+) at Frankenstein. Goal, absolutely crushed.

As the season wound down, I shifted gears, co-teaching a mountaineering course at Plymouth State University. I began guiding intro to ice days with Mooney Mountain Guides, and taught the Black Intro to Ice clinic as Mount Washington Valley Ice Fest. But I still wanted one more big send before the season ended. Pat suggested heading to Lake Willoughby in Vermont.

While Frankenstein offers approachable varied ice, Willoughby delivers massive 330-plus foot committing multi-pitch lines. On Saturday, we climbed the moderates, but eyed Glass Menagerie, a classic two-pitch WI 5. I climbed the first pitch, which goes at WI 3-4. The upper pillar had been melting in the sun so we decided to wait. After a cold night, the ice reformed. It was ready; I was ready.

Pat led the first pitch, setting up the belay. When I reached him, we talked it through, and he gave me the confidence to go for it. It was full on, and I was scared. Every swing reminded me of my first lead and every screw put up a fight in the ice blobs. But then I clipped the anchor and called down to Pat, “Off belay.” I did it. My first WI 5.

Just three winters earlier, I was a rock climber in baggy snowboarding pants, wondering what I was doing. Now I’d led a WI 5 at Willoughby.

Ice climbing has taught me a lot of things. Patience. Humility. It’s shown me that progress isn’t a straight line. Like ice, it melts and refreezes. I dropped a tool, had frozen toes, and got rained out. But I met my goals and I learned that the real reward isn’t the grade, it’s the grit. The commitment to keep showing up and to surround yourself with a good support system.

Climbing progression isn’t linear. It’s a long winding road with many stops and starts, ups and downs. It doesn’t have an end. It acts more as a guide that allows you to grow and evolve over time.

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