Afew weeks back Kevin and I backed off from Mount Washington. On the way down I kept staring over at Boott Spur. Named after the Physician and Botanist Dr. Francis Boott, the Boott Spur has three distinct rock-pile peaks with gorgeous gully-lines leading up. More famous for its ski lines, Boott Spur offers some fantastic climbing in years of lean snow cover. It looked awesome two weeks prior but what I found this day really blew me away.
I made my way into Pinkham Notch in time to catch breakfast in the visitor center. The sunlight peeked through the trees as I ascended toward Tuckerman Ravine. Once at Hojo’s I could barely see the Spur through the thick clouds. I had been carefully following the weather and avalanche reports gave me confidence that the aspect I was looking for would be passable. The only way I would find out would be to go up and see for myself.
The morning had been smooth and I felt confident as a young Indian brave. I was out to battle this mountain and I intended to succeed. My confidence dropped as well did my pace when I began wading through knee deep powder snow. In order to make any progress I had to take two steps then bow to the mountain taking the weight off of my feet long enough for another two steps. This worked for a while until I resolved to crawl on my hands and knees further distributing my weight, and further proving to myself that I was no match for this mountain. 
Finally through the deep snow I was reminded again of the awesome power the mountain held inside. At the base of Hillman’s Highway the earth was scoured from an avalanche that ripped through the day before. Boulders were half coated in the sticky concrete-hard snow and avalanche debris. If the new snow above decided to fail while I was in the runout I would be ground into a frozen paste along the rocks. I quickly got out of the way and traversed left to my destination.
From below I could see an enormous blue bulge of ice growing in Boott Spur Gully, but my mind was set on picking and french-stepping my way up the less snow filled (and less avalanche prone) Cathedral Gully. When I arrived at the bottom I could see only about a hundred feet up to the lip of the first section of ice. I was all smiles as I waded through more powder up to the base of the ice. As I stood beneath the eight foot-high bulge a decent amount of slough shot right over my head. Another reminder that mere men did not belong in such places. I calmed myself then pulled the tools out of my pack and pulled up the first bulge.
This low angle pitch went on for a couple hundred feet or so. Every so often the clouds would part and I turned back to catch a glimpse of the frozen valley below. Looking up to the second section of ice, which was a striking yellow color, I could just make out the rime-covered jagged peak I had been obsessing over for weeks. I pressed my way up the mellow yellow ice finding it to be a much better medium than the sloughy-deep powder.
Just below the peak the sun once again emerged so after a few too many selfies, I picked out a line and began humping up to the apex crux. Covered in five-inch long rime feathers, the final bit of climbing would be dry tooling up a boulder pile complete with overhangs and off-width cracks. I found balancing on my crampons to be a bit precarious and could feel the void of a thousand jagged feet of gravity below me. 
The clouds came back and the wind whipped over the ridge as I clumsily attempted to stuff my tools into any crack or hook that would hold. I soon found myself blindly scratching around with my left tool while hanging horizontally under a roof on my right. At this point with that deadly void below me I was looking for any excuse to bail on the final pitch. Luckily the backpack I was wearing was too wide on me to squeeze through and over the roof. I slowly backed off and left the rock-finish unclimbed. I didn’t need any more reminders from this mountain that I was unworthy. I was more than willing to accept the safer route and walk to the top and climb another day. 
The ridge was 50/50 white-out or blue-bird. I made good time looping around and back down to the ravine floor. Two skiers on their way into Tuck’s asked me if I had found any good lines. I knew from the start that I was after this gully like a warrior goes after scalps and fighting the mountain like it owed me its summit. I told them yes and no; for a grand climb comes as a gift borne ofhumility, of wisdom, and of patience. If from climbing we learn nothing but this, then we have already learned very much. 
The Boott Spur – A true story adapted from the Brule Sioux Vision Quest –
climb with crowley 
nice photos; you should back off a little on the writing