“All mountain landscapes hold stories, the ones we hear,

the ones we dream and the ones we create.”

—Michael Kennedy

Jesse Selwyn, Travis Anderson. Photos by Travis Anderson — Jesse Selwyn, Travis Anderson. *Photos by Travis Anderson*

I take one last glance at the packed climbing gear before crawling into bed. If I know Jesse, and I definitely do, he’ll be at my house 15 minutes early smiling ear to ear with contagious excitement. I’ll be my usual groggy and slightly grumpy self at the ungodly departure hour. And so begins another ice climbing excursion.

Jesse Selwyn, who describes his teenage self as a shy, Poindexter type, grew up in Georgia racing mountain bikes. Navy Reserve Officer Training Corps subsidized his college dreams with a bonus of valuable leadership experience and the push to be his best physical and mental self. These defining traits have given him a hard edge to meet the demands of rigorous backcountry outings head-on.

After earning an undergraduate degree in exercise sports science, he craved bigger adventures and headed to Montana, where he chased ice and played in wild topography. A gig at the Missoula REI supported his climbing bum habits, and the “new gear” temptation proved too much. He soon maxed out his credit cards on ice tools, ropes, skis, crampons and traditional climbing gear. He played, and played hard, honing his skills and thoroughly enjoying his twenties.

“I’ll always cherish my Montana chapter, as it was the first time I fully absorbed the vast wild feeling of such an immense landscape. I also made lifelong friendships pursuing the mountain activities I’d always dreamt of doing,” Jesse recalls.

He eventually returned to school and embarked on his career as a respiratory therapist in Grand Junction. After a few seasons in the valley, he rediscovered his love for mountain biking and spent a few years dabbling as a professional on the Big Mountain Enduro Pro Tour.

While respiratory therapy made ends meet, he found himself unfulfilled by the demanding corporate grind and less time to pursue his real passions. Not one to fear change and growth, Jesse stepped back from the medical field to pursue American Mountain Guides Association (AMGA) rock/ice climbing guide certifications. “The coursework is great. Though challenging and frustrating at times, it’s one of the best things I have ever done. I’ve found my stride and am learning a ton of cool stuff,” he says.

It’s 4 a.m. and I hear a few light knocks, sending my red heeler pup barking towards the door. I peep out the window and see two headlights: Jesse is early and I’m running late. He’ll surely have a witty comment about my punctuality and our banter will begin as we head south. I set my breakfast burrito and coffee in the console and make a feeble attempt at conversation, but he and I both know I’ll be sound asleep as soon as we pull out of my driveway. Much like the time it was my turn to drive, I talked him into taking over the wheel; minutes later I was snoozing away in the passenger seat.

As we pass through Montrose, he nudges me awake so I can catch the first daylight awakening the horizon’s snow-capped peaks, a mixture of hazy oranges and purples that never disappoint. Today we head to the southern San Juans to climb one of the more captivating frozen waterfalls in all of Colorado — Ames Ice Hose. Michael Kennedy, Steve Shea and Lou Dawson first climbed the route in 1976 during the “bold and cold” era when climbing gear was staggeringly basic and climbers donned itchy wool shirts instead of waterproof Gore-Tex. The route’s namesake is nearby Ames hydro power station, one of the world’s first power stations to generate and transmit alternating current.

We high-five each other when we pull into the empty trailhead of this popular backcountry climb. With our climbing boots laced up, ice packs strapped to our backs and one final sip of warm coffee, we venture into the frigid air. After a 30-minute hike through the frosted conifers and tall pines and a few stretches of post-holing through deep snow (imagine a weird cross fit workout: punch through, sink in, high-step repeat), we find ourselves at the base of the day’s objective.

We snap on our crampons, pull out our ice tools and both tie into the rope. With a quick verbal safety check, Jesse gracefully leads off into the vertical world. Skilled climbers have a way of dancing up the ice with fluidity, precision, power and balance; they make the hard look easy. Jesse does just that as he unlocks the climbing secrets of the steep ice.

Following him with a mixture of both anticipation and nervousness, I work my way up the first pitch in a way that is anything but graceful. At our first belay stance, my forearms are over-pumped and I’m barely able to grip my ice tools. Breathlessly, I tell Jesse, “I’m going to need a minute,” as my fingers begin to tingle. It’s the first sign of what climbers refer to as the “screaming barfies,” also known as “hot aches.” It happens as cold hands begin to warm and feels as though your fingers are over a lit match while deep nausea settles in your gut. Jesse just smiles while I groan.

As my hands regain their ability to function, my mind returns to our present surroundings. I glance up at a thin ribbon of ice surrounded by craggy granite on both sides — this is one of the most alluring places I’ve ever stood. I breathe in and out a few times, taking it all in. These moments are fleeting. After a quick handoff of equipment, I put Jesse back on belay and watch him dance up pitch two.

On the final pitch, we strike gold and encounter a wall of hero ice; its blue-tinted surface glistens from the increasing warmth of the day, which creates a softer, more pliable consistency. This is the sweet spot for ice climbing, where it almost seems like cheating when each swing of the tool locks into the ice with a reassuring thunk. We scramble up the last wall with ease, hooting and hollering as we go. At the top, we pause to relish our success before rappelling back down to where it all began. When we reach the truck, we pull off our boots, crawl into the cold vehicle, crank the defrost to max and start the drive home tired, hungry and happy.

Jesse once told me that one of the reasons he is so drawn to ice is that every climb is different. Even climbing the same waterfall months apart is a new experience. The ice changes almost weekly, growing more voluminous as the season waxes and dissipating as the season wanes.

As I look back at our friendship, through all of the years of adventure, Jesse has become a brother to me. I’m often reminded of our first conversation when I asked him if he skied, biked or climbed: he looked at me with a huge grin and said, “guilty of them all.”

Originally published in the Winter 2020-21 issue of Spoke+Blossom.

Jesse Selwyn + The Story Of Two Amigos On Ice