No Contest

First one toe full of spikes slipped from the ice, then his other foot gave way, and then his body landed hard against the bulge of ice over which he was attempting to crawl. He lay there, grunting over the climber cam microphone feed as he strained his arm muscles. He had to get his handheld climbing claw deep in the ice to support his weight without foot support—but he didn’t. The claw of the climbing hammer ripped through the ice, and the Kiwi fell. His body flipped, then slammed flat against the ice and he slid a hundred feet, gaining tremendous speed, before hitting a sharp protrusion that launched him away from the steep slope of the ice wall. He plummeted, arms and legs churning, then fell back against the ice as its incline deepened near the bottom of the wall.

That’s what made the ice wall so perfect. It always formed at an angle—just a few degrees away from straight up, but just enough to keep the survivability rate high.

“That was spectacular!” the Brit exclaimed. He jogged up to the Kiwi climber, who was croaking weakly. “He’s still alive! You see, as we’ve been saying, there is an angle to the wall. Close to the bottom of the wall, the ice juts out, quite smoothly in some places. The ice itself eases the falling climber to the bottom. This bloke’s gonna make it!”

Just then the Kiwi commenced screaming. The paramedics were wrapping the V-bent shin where the bone spears protruded from the flesh. The Brit frowned at him and said into the camera, “Can we use that? Was he shouting over me?” He listened to a response in his headset. “Oh, good.”

Sherm was happy when both his climbers made headway, and by hour two they were fifth and eighth. Still, there were four climbers ahead of them and making progress.

The climber in fourth was aggressive, but inexperienced. His reckless climbing got him into several tight spots. But every time he felt himself on a slippery slope he flattened out and dug in hard, then managed to get himself up and moving again.

The ice got softer in the afternoon sun and the melt became trickles. Two climbers lost their grip within minutes of each other.

One picked up a tremendous amount of speed and hit a protrusion in the wall with immense force.

“Cold fish? Let me hear the wagers!” the Brit bellowed. It was sort of a tradition the Brit started last year at the first ice wall climb; when a body was falling, the other announcers and production staff called out their guesses. A cold fish was a body that was dead before it reached the base of the wall, and everybody called out their guesses rapid-fire. Each bet was worth one U.S. dollar, and the pot was split by those who guessed correctly.

The audience at home had taken to the game. They couldn’t wait for more Cold Fish games at this year’s Blind Ice Wall Climb.

“Cold fish!”

“Cold fish!”

“Floppy fish!”

“Cold fish!”

The climber was, of course, as dead as a gutted trout by the time she slithered to a stop at the bottom of the wall, making her officially a cold fish. In the end there were only two floppy-fish bets among the entire production staff, so the winning pot was pretty meager.

“Uh-oh, we may have another one!” the announcer cried. “I can’t believe it!”

It was the experienced climber in fourth place. He was in big trouble. He had both hammers dug into the wall, and yet they were dredging up slushy furrows. His body was creeping along faster. He pushed his toe spike in harder but it made no difference…

One claw hammer slipped free, then another, and the climber zipped down the wall.

Sherm MacGregor caught his breath as the falling climber snatched at his panic button to disable the blinders on his glasses, spotted Penny Peppiatt and made a grab for her as he flew on by. His fingers had to have brushed her sleeve, but he just kept on going.

The climber’s Web cam was one of the windows on Sherm’s ten-screen video feed at the moment, and it was quite thrilling to watch the white world spin violently around the plummeting climber. The camera kept working even after a sudden jolt, then another, as the body ricocheted between two ice ridges.

“Oh, tough luck!” the British announcer exclaimed. “Cold fish!”

“Floppy fish.”

“Floppy fish.”

“Cold fish.”

Once again the cold-fish guesses prevailed, and they appeared on target as the limp body came to a halt with its face against the ice. A paramedic rushed in with a stethoscope.

“Floppy fish!” she called.

“Well, I just don’t believe it! He sure looks cold to me. We’ll keep an eye on that bloke just in case the medics were pulling our legs, eh?” He laughed. The paramedic gave him a churlish grin, then tended to her floppy fish.

At the halfway mark, Sherm saw it was time for him to act. The three front-runners were putting distance between themselves and the rest of the pack. Sherm’s designates to win were holding on to their positions, now fourth and seventh.