Graustock North Face
The small town of Engelberg is situated right in the centre of Switzerland. It is encircled on three sides by the Uri Alps, and compared with other, more picturesque mountain villages, it can feel almost overwhelming to be smothered by the sheer limestone walls surrounding it. Yet this closeness to the mountains is Engelberg’s claim to fame, as it is one of the prime ski resorts in central Switzerland. And right in the middle of it all sits the Graustock, with its north face rising 800 vertical metres from the bottom of the ski resort to the summit.
The Graustock north face is an imposing wall of vertical limestone. Being in such close proximity to a prime spot for carving on perfectly groomed pistes creates an almost laughable dissonance between the challenges of a steep alpine climb up a forbidding north face and the joys of après-ski drinks a couple of hundred metres below. In fact, at the gondola in Engelberg, among all the people carrying their heavy carving skis, I felt distinctly out of place, with my ice-climbing boots and technical ice tools strapped to my backpack, and I experienced a strange sense of embarrassment. I felt like I didn’t belong here, and was glad when I could finally step out of the bustling activity of the lift station and start walking to leave the resort behind me. Even though I knew there was nothing wrong with my plans, it felt as if I were doing something illegal – the same sentiment you get walking past the cashier in a grocery store without buying anything. But, admittedly, more than anything, what was most responsible for this feeling was the fact that I was all by myself – without a partner or even a rope for that matter.
Following the approach path leading away from the ski resort
Spotting two big icefalls on the approach
As I left the crowds of skiers and day hikers behind me, the noise of the bustling ski resort slowly faded while I skirted along the perimeter of the Trübsee. On its frozen surface, several people were making offhand attempts at ice skating in rental boots. There was a good track in place, and finding my way was easy as I traversed beneath the imposing north faces of the Schafberg and then the Graustock. I traced the dark ridge connecting the two, trying to make out traces of the via ferrata running along its length. The weather was calm and pleasant, with cold temperatures, but the sun shining from the crystal-clear blue sky warming me during my approach until I eventually entered into the shadow of the mountains. In the lower parts of the north face, I could spot two prominent ice falls that looked in decent enough condition, except that the top and bottom halves of each were split, connected by the slimmest sliver of ice. From afar, it appeared as if the falls would be – with enough determination – climbable. I made a mental note for a possible future adventure and continued my traverse, following the footprints in the snow until I began ascending across a large field of avalanche debris.
Here, I decided to don my crampons before I found myself in steep terrain that would make putting them on unnecessarily difficult. I skirted a small buttress flowing down to the foot of the slope, marking the start of the Stei route on the Graustock north face. I could make out patches of ice higher up, but the good track in the snow made me sceptical about needing to make contact with it anytime soon. I climbed the first couple of metres; the snow was firm and frozen, making for very easy climbing. I started to sense that today would be mostly a cardiovascular challenge, and before climbing any higher, I decided to take a short break and eat something. I didn’t feel hungry yet, but I didn’t want to have to stop midway through the route or risk bonking. So I sat in the snow, chewed on a bar and drank some tea. Before starting the climb proper, I checked my watch. It was just before half past 12. I continued following the tracks, my legs feeling strong after the burst of sugar I had just released into my bloodstream. As I got higher, I encountered more and more ice. “This would appear to be the first icefall,” I thought. It wasn’t really a continuous fall, just patches of ice interspersed with snow and rocks. There was no point in trying to climb this scarce ice when there was a perfectly good track in the snow, so I simply followed it.
I climbed higher, as did my heart rate. With these solid steps, I was able to just keep going without much thinking. Eventually, I grew a bit tired of the monotony of just putting one leg in front of the other. I sensed a shortcut up a couple of metres of untracked terrain, which led me towards a gentle snow slope I could follow until I regained the track. I traversed around a protruding buttress, behind which I first laid eyes on the crux of the climb: a long gully of ice that is usually overcome in a few pitches of WI3 climbing. Up to this point, the climbing had never felt exposed. But as I approached the long gully of ice, I knew this was about to change. It didn’t look very steep, but a significant drop loomed below the ice. As I got to the base, I hadn’t yet decided whether I wanted to go for my first proper free solo ice lead, so I pushed that decision until I could more closely inspect what I was up against…
Moving up the route’s inital slope, following mostly a good track in the snow
Looking down while soloing the icefall
The final step of ice climbing
“It’s almost over,” I thought, “what a shame.” I could see the angle of the ice easing off, only a few metres higher. Soon, I would leave this wall of ice behind me. It wasn’t even 15 minutes ago that I had made the decision to commit to climbing this ice. Deep down, I knew I had never seriously considered bailing. But it felt good to tell myself that I had been careful and methodical in my decision. It gave me confidence, which was all I had needed to push down my nervousness and make the first moves on the ice. And those first moves are always the worst. You feel a little shaky; the change of rhythm from the steady bootpacking throwing your nervous system off balance. But with each successive move, it adapts and gets used to this new challenge until the movement slowly starts to feel natural, and you are simply moving without thinking, focused on nothing but the next move in front of you. Everything else is secondary; there is simply no time to think about the consequences of a mistake.
Now, as I stood before the final few metres of climbing, I knew what was about to happen. As is so often the case in high-stakes moments of concentration, being so absorbed in the moment seems to temporarily suspend my ability to form strong memories. One moment I’m engaged in something challenging, and the next it is over, and I’m left searching for what it had felt like to actually be in that moment. This seems somehow linked to the consequences of whatever I’m engaged in, rather than the technicality. I am perfectly capable of recalling a particularly challenging sequence of moves whilst mixed climbing, as long as I’m on a rope and confident in my protection. But in these high-stakes situations, there simply doesn't appear to be enough brain capacity left for something as frivolous as memories. I could see myself now heading for this exact outcome and consciously forced myself to slow down. Deliberately getting myself out of my flow state. As I reached a comfortable stance, I stopped. Completely. I forced myself to relax and removed my hands from my tools, one at a time. Slowly, I turned my head to stare into the void beneath me. I felt calm and fully relished the position I was in. I enjoyed the feeling of having climbed through most of the challenging high-consequence terrain, but knowing it was not over yet. I was still in that moment, savouring the feeling of being present and focused.
A snow slope leading towards a snowy ramp behind which the hidden couloir lies
Eventually, however, I had to leave my exposed resting position. A few more delicate hooks on the thin ice, and I was able to stand upright on a gentle snow slope once more. A few metres higher, I had to ascend one more short step of WI2, but then the ice climbing was over. I was pleasantly surprised by how quickly my nervousness had waned and how comfortable I had felt climbing the ice below. Looking back down at the drop below, a sense of vertigo returned, but while I had been climbing, I had been completely focused on the next move in front of me. Most of the technical difficulty of the route now lay behind me, and I was certain I would top out not before long. It was just after 1 p.m., and I still had plenty of time. I now had to follow an easy track in the snow for a while, which got my heart pumping once more. I was glad when some easy climbing up a ramp between a couple of rocky outcrops forced me to slow down briefly and allowed me to catch my breath. Behind the ramp, I approached a small hidden couloir which led to the route's final technical section. A couple of M3 moves had to be climbed, but compared to the ice gully before, this felt very relaxed. It wasn’t exposed at all, and a fall here would simply send me down a couple of metres back into the snowy gully below. The rock was a bit crumbly, but I enjoyed these final moves of technical climbing, which were over far too soon.
There was now a long traverse across a snow slope in front of me, which would lead to a cornice and the end of the route. The Stei route tops out halfway along the ridge that rises from the Schafberg. To reach the summit, one would have to continue along this ridge, following the via ferrata towards the Graustock summit. The traverse I now faced was perhaps the objectively most dangerous part of the route – a strange sentiment given what I had just soloed. On any given day, anything but the safest of avalanche conditions would make this traverse a bold and unreasonably dangerous enterprise. The slope is not very steep, but below it a sheer drop looms that leaves no doubt about what will happen should you be so unlucky as to be carried towards it by an avalanche. Even a small slide is enough to sweep even the most secure-footed alpinist off their feet in this terrain. But on this day, I knew conditions were close to perfect. And the track before me was well-trodden, evidence of the many parties who had climbed the route before me over the course of the previous days.
The final traverse acorss the big horizontal snow field
Looking back at the traverse across the snow field
Before starting this traverse, there was actually a small intersection, as another path led towards a steep, rocky gully higher up. I could see some people at the base who appeared to have just started climbing it. This was an alternative exit for the route that would add another short climbing section around M4, but since it required an abseil on the other side and I had opted not to carry a rope, it was out of the question for me. And looking at the small congestion of climbers – some even equipped with skis, which certainly would not help them climb any quicker – I had no fear of missing out on that bit of climbing. I did realise, however, that my leisurely start had been a huge benefit. I had not been by myself on this route today, after all, it just so happened that everybody else had started long before me, and I had only just now, in these final sections of the climb, caught up to the parties in front of me. This was very well, as climbing below other people while soloing is generally not a very advisable affair. And with how brittle the ice had been today, soloing the ice gully while parties above could potentially send chunks of ice down to me would have been very sketchy. Not having to worry about other people, having only yourself to be accountable for, is one of the main appeals of soloing to me, and my enjoyment of the route today had, in large part, been due to the fact that I had encountered no one else while climbing it.
I moved swiftly along the horizontal traverse, my legs carried along by not having to climb upward for once. I enjoyed the sense of exposure this traverse offered and relished how relaxed I felt in this terrain. Truth be told, for most of the route, protecting it would prove difficult, and carrying a rope would add little more security compared to soloing it, with the big exception of the ice climbing, of course. But on this traverse, I actually preferred to be by myself rather than be tied to someone on a rope, which could do little except add a false sense of security. The snow below the cornice was firm and well picked out; climbing it posed no challenge, and soon I could stand upright on horizontal terrain, enjoying the sunshine for the first time since entering the shadow of the Graustock three hours earlier. It had taken me just one and a half hours to complete the entire route; it was a bit funny how long a journey from Zurich I had taken for just 90 minutes of climbing.
Toping out the Stei route
The descent path follows a ridge westward before turning south along it to skirt around the Schafberg and rejoin the ski resort. It felt nice to be moving in the sun now. The snow was getting soft, but by following the tracks, I could make progress without too much trouble. Higher up, I could see some climbers who must have just finished the rappels after climbing the alternative exit. Some 45 minutes later, I was at the Jochpass, back within the ski resort's boundaries. Since I didn’t bring skis, the easiest way to get back down to the Titlis Express was to take the chairlift. As I removed my gear, some of the climbers I had spotted earlier passed by and asked if my partner had abandoned me after seeing me descend on my own. They raised their eyebrows as I explained I was by myself, and I couldn’t quite tell whether they were impressed or thought I was an idiot. The chairlift ride took me back down towards the Trübsee. From my vantage point, I could watch people skiing the slopes, which looked very icy that day. I spotted a handful of people taking a fall, and at least one person was sent sliding on their backside down the slope. The current conditions in the mountains were evidently not as conducive to resort skiing as they were to mixed climbing.
Back down in the midst of the bustling ski resort, I crossed the frozen lake and boarded the Titlis Express once more. I still felt out of place in my attire, but at least now I could enjoy the contentment of having accomplished my objective. It was not even 4 p.m. when I set foot back in Engelberg, and I would be in Zurich with enough time to spare to make it to the New Year’s Eve dinner party I was invited to tonight. Though I was unsure if I would be able to stay awake until midnight after this short but high-intensity training excursion on the final day of 2025.