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Cracko
Trad climber
Quartz Hill, California
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Topic Author's Original Post - Jan 19, 2006 - 04:00pm PT
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As much as I enjoy the "other" stuff on this forum, I really enjoy reading people's trip reports. Big Walls, long free climbs, first top rope climb, it really doesn't matter. And, writing a trip report is an enriching experience. Come on you guys.....produce!!
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Texplorer
Trad climber
Las Vegas
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Jan 19, 2006 - 04:50pm PT
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OK, here you go
Yosemite – July 9-16 2005
South Seas (5.8 A4) to Pacific Ocean Wall (5.9 C4F or A3)
Pitch 17 – The topo just showed a right leaning line leading 120ft and simply said C3F or A2 for the bottom of the pitch and C4 or A2 for the top. I sat at a hanging belay, having just clipped a ton of copperheads and rusty ¼ inch rivets on the last pitch and perfectly satisfied to let “the highlander” take this daunting pitch. Dan had clipped a pencil sized copperhead and sat there in his aiders for a good 15 minutes staring at the blankness. Above lay a perfectly vertical blank wall with a small angling seam jutting up for about 10ft and then angling right. After awhile I prodded him to at least try something to which he replied that he thought it might be my turn to take the pitch.
Reluctantly we untied and switched ends of the rope. Now I was in the same position Dan had sat moments earlier. The only thing I could see was a thin, shallow slot above. Too small for any cam I decided a short Lost Arrow might fit. Ping, Ping, Ping, the LA went in only ¾ of an inch. I tied it off and bounce tested it. It held and I gently moved onto it knowing that if it blew I would fall right onto the belay. Above that I had to thread a small rivet hanger wire through a fixed RURP. The crack above looked even more desperate. A piece of mank webbing, turned white from the elements stuck out from unseen piece. Seeing a small flare in the seam I thought . . . copperhead. Being my first ever attempt at placing a copperhead this added a little more spice. I equalized it with the mank webbing and moved onto it. From the copperhead I placed my first ever RURP and finally reached an old, rusty fixed pin. Whew!
Finally, having the pin and a bunch of junk below I relaxed a bit. A few small placements later I was on a cam hook when POW it popped and I took about a 10ft fall onto a green alien. The alien held but the biner was cross-loaded. The wiregate bent but held and somehow shredded the side of the alien’s webbing. The rest of the pitch was rated C4 or A2 (C4 = clean aid, not using a hammer). Dan and I agree there is no such thing as C4. A few ping, pings of the hammer and I go the A2 option. The pitch only took me about 2 ½ hours but was definitely memorable. Two days and 10 pitches later we topped out tired but happy.
Overall the route took us one day fixing the first pitch, one rest day, and then 6 more on the wall.
South Seas is a more difficult 10 pitch start variation to the classic Pacific Ocean Wall. Not that the PO is easy by any means but when your sitting at home dreaming of being on the “high seas” its easy to look at the topo and think . . . yeah, . . . I can do that. Then when you get there and already have your partner lined up it’s too late to back out.
I should have realized that the route was going to be a serious endeavor when the first move was a hook. That first 160ft pitch of South Seas took me 4-5 hours to lead and was one of the most exhausting leads of my life. When I rapped back down to the ground I was a full 60 ft away from start. Dan gets kudos for cleaning that overhanging monster too.
Yes, South Seas is STEEP. I don’t think we had a pitch that wasn’t overhanging until like pitch 19. Every time we’d release the bags they would just fly into space. The PO lets up on the steepness but is still pretty much vertical. It also has many classic features.
I was a bit nervous about the A4 expando pitch but it went pretty smoothly and felt A2 to me. Dan thought the “Rubberband man” pitch was pretty difficult. My hardest pitch was probably the pitch before the Bering Straights as detailed above.
We were also nervous about the 2nd to last pitch on which a soloist had pulled a large block off that cut both his aiders and daisys. Since he pendulumed over to Tempest to top out, we didn’t know exactly what we would encounter. I could see a huge slab of dirt that must have collected behind the behemoth and was glad that I didn’t pull that thing off. I delicately hooked past the loose stuff that remained with no problems.
Most of the rivet hangers I had just made with a crimping tool(and never tested). Unfortunately I found out that I made them out of the wrong kind of wire. The wire I used is “slicker” and they would not stay cinched down. You’d look down and sometimes see that they had uncinched themselves. Quite unnerving at times.
Overall, it’s a great route with a lot of classic features and very steep. Walking off we met Ammon and Gabe McNeeley and Ivo. They had just done Virginia to Tangerine Trip in a 15 hour push. I envied their light packs as Dan and I stumbled our monsterous pigs down the slabs.
This is a great route to step up your aid grades as there is some technical aiding but pretty much clean falls. Neither Dan nor I took any big whippers but there are definitely some potential spots for that. Also bring your free climbing shoes for the pitch after Island in the Sky (the only ledge on the route). I also recommend having a double set of offset aliens or you’ll be putting in double the number of pins.
Here’s our gear list to the best of my recollection-
Rack
Double set HB offset nuts (triples in some sizes)
35 cams up to a #5 Friend and including a double set of offset aliens
7 assorted hooks and cam hooks
2 RURPs
4 beaks
15 assorted copperheads (homemade by texplorer)
15 assorted rivet hangers (mostly the faulty ones I made)
20 pins
15 locking biners
15 quickdraws
6 2ft slings
14 free biners
Ropes
65m Yates 11mm lead line
60m static haul line
60m 8mm tag line
Other
Metolious Double ledge w/ fly
2 Sleeping bags
2 metolious haulbags w/ sleeping pads as liners
Swivel
14 gallons water
Food for 42 meals
Wet baby wipes
Sunscreen
Duct tape
Chapstick
1 pair of free shoes
2 windjackets
1 belay jacket
Belay seat
Dry bag (shitbag)
TP
3 rope bags
2 helmets
Hat
2x sunglasses
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Mark
climber
bend, oregon
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Jan 19, 2006 - 05:08pm PT
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good read tex! sounds like you had quite the adventure. thanks for sharing.
hope to be your way in march.
mark d
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Cracko
Trad climber
Quartz Hill, California
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 19, 2006 - 05:58pm PT
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Tex,
Great TR! Thanks. Happiegrrl & Karl, haven't gotten to yours yet but thanks for posting up!!
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kevin Fosburg
Sport climber
park city,ut
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Jan 19, 2006 - 07:57pm PT
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Cool report Tex. I did that route around '91 and enjoyed it. Curious about the C grades. If something is rated C3 or C4, does that imply that one is not suposed to nail? Sounds pretty horrifying if so. I've always embraced the "use a chock, save the rock; use a pin, save some skin" ethos.
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kevin Fosburg
Sport climber
park city,ut
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Jan 19, 2006 - 09:36pm PT
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Karl, just checked out your Shield TR. At a certain point I started thinking, hmm...Neil, could it be that one guy (aka space babble)? Then, sure enough, the picture of him in that hammock made me laugh out loud. Didn't he subsequently get busted for bank robbery or something?
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Karl Baba
Trad climber
Yosemite, Ca
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Jan 19, 2006 - 10:46pm PT
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Hi Kevin
Yup, went to prison for a long time and may still be there.
He made his bed but he's been lying in it for a long, long time. Hope things look up for him
Peace
Karl
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BPorter
Big Wall climber
Quartz Hill, Ca
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Jan 19, 2006 - 11:20pm PT
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Karl,
The Zodiac solo TR was a gem. Having climbed it myself some time ago it brought back great memories. Thanks for sharing.
Cracko
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alik
Big Wall climber
edmonton
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Jan 20, 2006 - 02:22am PT
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Some really good stories here. Keep posting. I love reading this stuff; makes the long winters a little more bearable.
This is a little story I wrote a while back about trying to solo Zodiac "in a day". I wrote it as more of a narrative about an adventure that meant a lot to me than a beta intensive trip report. I had an absolute blast on this climb and pushed myself harder than I ever had before. Definitely one of my most memorable climbs. Anyways, here it is:
Doubt. My mind had become increasingly crowded with it all week and now I needed to be rid of it. I needed to find a way to break free of it and I had to do it soon.
I had been living and climbing in the valley for nearly two months now, climbing almost every day. After every big climb I would dip into a seemingly limitless supply of reserve energy and carry the momentum on to the next route. But then, after climbing the Nose route on El Capitain in a 27 hour push, that supply finally ran out and I crashed. My body and mind were both completely exhausted, and for the next week I moped about camp 4 in a state of lethargy. I lost all motivation to climb and I began to seriously question why I was here and whether or not I really wanted to be here. I even began to wonder if the climbing life really was what I wanted. Could it really make me truly happy? Could I really lead a life where climbing rocks was the only thing that gave me pleasure? After lengthy consideration I finally decided that the best way to pull myself out of this stupor was to climb something big. Something that would really challenge me. Something to get the momentum going again.
First I needed a strong partner though. Some friends suggested I look up Ian, an energetic, young climber from Mammoth, who was keen on doing “The DNB”, a difficult route that I had wanted to do all summer. I talked with Ian, and he was game. We agreed to meet in the camp 4 lot at 4am the following morning. I was psyched to do the climb, but when I met him the next morning he was visibly distraught over something, and I knew from the moment I saw him that the climb was off. Indeed, something had come up, and he had to be in curry village at 6:00 that evening, which didn’t give us nearly enough time. We agreed to try a shorter route instead, but his head just wasn’t into it and we bailed after one pitch.
Shortly thereafter I found myself back in camp 4 feeling pretty despondent and wondering what to do next. I made a brief attempt to find a new partner but came away empty-handed. Extremely discouraged I sat down at a picnic table were my friends Eric, and Amee were cooking breakfast. I picked up a copy of the big walls guidebook and began flipping through the pages. For some reason, Zodiac (a 16 pitch aid route on El Cap) caught my eye, and, jokingly I suggested to my friends that “maybe I should just go and solo the Zodiac in a push”. But, looking at the topo again, I couldn’t help being intrigued by the idea. Indeed, the climb, done in this style, would be much more difficult than anything I had ever attempted, but perhaps it was just what I needed. After studying the topo in more detail, I concluded that by linking some pitches, and using some alternate belays I would be able to do the climb in only eleven or twelve pitches—the climb was beginning to seem less intimidating. But was I really thinking realistically? I had never even attempted to speed solo a long aid route before, and now I was considering trying it on an El Cap route.
Eventually I decided that the least I could do was try. It would be better than spending yet another day relaxing in camp 4, and if I found I was moving too slow I could always bail. I borrowed the guidebook, and went to Yosemite lodge to get a photocopy of the Zodiac topo. On my way back I ran into Ivo, a friend, and formidable Valley climber, who mentioned that he had ropes fixed to the third pitch of Zodiac in preparation for a later ascent. This gave me an idea: if I jugged Ivo’s lines I could avoid the first two pitches, witch had recently been cleaned of all fixed gear, and were consequently much harder, and would be more time consuming than the rest. I asked Ivo if he was okay with me jugging his lines to give me a jump start on the route.
“Sure, I don’t mind if you jug them”, he replied in his thick Bulgarian accent, “but don’t forget, if you do, you won’t have really done the Zodiac”.
Ivo was right, and I knew it, but still there was no denying that if I did jug the lines my chances of success would be much greater. I thanked Ivo for giving me permission to jug his lines, and headed back to camp to find a ride to El Cap meadows. Amee agreed to drive me and also lent me some extra cams that I needed.
By five o-clock, I had started the approach, carrying a 60lb pack that contained three gallons of water, two ropes, perhaps 20 pounds of hardware, a little food (pop tarts and bagels), and a light bivy jacket. Needless to say, I did the approach at a very leisurely pace, stopping often to rest, and gawk at the vast expanse of rock that loomed above me. I felt like a novice wall climber approaching his first El Cap route; nervous and timid. Although I had climbed the wall before, to solo it in a push would be so different than doing so with a partner, that I was just as vulnerable as that novice wall climber. It would be a completely new style for me, and walking below the monolith I couldn’t help but feel unworthy of such a lofty goal.
I reached the base of Zodiac at 7PM, and spent the last few minutes of daylight lying in the talus, and gazing up at the route. For the first time all day I was able to relax and be rid of my inner turmoil. As I lay there I thought nothing of what was to happen the next day, nor of whether I was capable. I just soaked in the view, and allowed its beauty to cleanse my soul, and clear my mind. I fell asleep having reached no conclusions to the day’s dilemmas, but knowing that the answers would be clear in the morning.
When my shivering awoke me at about 3:45AM, I knew right away that the climb was on, and that I wasn’t going anywhere near Ivo’s lines. I wasted no time getting started, and within a few minutes, I was groggily starting up the first pitch. Not five minutes later, and 35 feet up, I found myself with a string of worthless beaks below me, and looking at an almost certain groundfall, should I blow it. Not a good situation to be in after just waking up a few minutes ago! Luckily, the next piece was a decent rivet, and the climbing quickly became easy C1 camming. But my head was still cloudy with drowsiness, and I moved slowly and clumsily. Then, as I weighted a slightly flared cam placement, I suddenly felt gravity pulling me violently earthward. The fall lasted just a second or two, but when I jolted to a stop, I snapped out of my earlier drowsiness, and my mind was instantly as sharp as a knife. Looking up, the beam of my headlamp barely reached the cam that had caught my fall, 20 feet above me. I was surprised that I had fallen so far, but didn’t let it faze me as I continued up the pitch.
Checking my watch at the end of the second pitch (I linked the first two), I found that the lead had taken over two hours. I knew that the climb would be impossible if I continued at this pace, but I decided to continue regardless, hoping that I would move faster on the rest of the climb. As I began the rappel, I quickly realized that safely rappelling a single 8mm rope down an overhanging wall was no mean feat in its own rite. I was just barely able to get enough friction to slide down the rope in a controlled manner. Soon I was leaving the ground for the second time, and I began to clean the pitch, carrying the pack with all my food, and water on my back. I now felt as though I had finally, fully committed to the route, and I began to move with the purpose, and drive that I needed to get up the climb fast.
I raced up the next three pitches in just over 3 hours; I was in the zone. I moved quickly and confidently, while still keeping a reasonable margin of safety. At the pitch five belay I had the luxury of some small ledges, and took a short break to recharge, and re-hydrate. But, I did not linger for long, and was soon motoring up the next pitch. Clipping the pitch six anchors, I continued on and made a belay at the top of the black tower midway up the seventh pitch. The thin seam that splits the wall above the black tower, is generally considered to be the crux of the Zodiac. It features a long stretch of tenuous placements, the vast majority of which would not hold a fall, and bad fall potential onto the ramp below. I climbed this crack slowly, and carefully, constantly aware of the broken ankles (or worse) that were in store for me, should I make even the slightest mistake. Fortunately, I was able to pass through this section with no more than sweaty palms, and a dry palate, and was soon at the seventh belay anchor, which I skipped, hoping to link all the way to the end of the eighth pitch.
On the eighth pitch, the route enters the grey circle, a roughly 400ft wide circle of impeccable, overhanging grey stone. The path of the Zodiac takes a spectacular, clean cut, dihedral, straight through the middle of the circle. This was where the route started to get good. While cleaning the pitch I stopped at the pitch seven belay, which sported a 2x7 foot ledge, and took a twenty minute break as this would be the last ledge for some time. I took my shoes off, and relaxed on the ledge, enjoying the spectacular vista I was so fortunate to have. I nearly had the entire south-east face of the Captain to myself, the only other person being another soloist on the Sea of Dreams, far to my left. I yelled a greeting over to him; he responded with an animated “woo-hoooo!”. Although we had never met, up here we were brothers, both of us immersed in this lonely, vertical world that we loved so much.
It was 4PM, I had been climbing for 12 hours, and was half way up the route. The next good ledge would be peanut ledge, at the end of the thirteenth pitch. I could only hope to reach peanut before I ran out of momentum, and crashed, which would inevitably happen at about hour 18. Before leaving the ledge, I did a water count, and found that I still had seven litres left, which was more than enough to finish the climb on. As I started up the next pitch, I heard a call drift up from below. It was Ivo, and his crew, hauling their bags up to pitch three.
“How’s it going up there”, one of them yelled up.
“Awesome dude. Yee-haaaw!” I hollered back.
“Sent it Man. Woo-hooo!” Came the energetic reply.
Spurred on by my friends encouragement, I continued up with renewed vigour. I raced up the next two, spectacular, pitches in three hours, and began the eleventh as the sun went down. Peanut ledge was now only three pitches away, but I was in for a very long night. By the end of the pitch, the day’s climbing had finally caught up with me, and I was barely able to keep my eyes open. In a daze, I built an anchor, and rappelled the pitch. Back at the previous belay, I hung in my harness, drifting in and out of consciousness. I needed to keep moving and I knew it, but I was so exhausted that I couldn’t focus long enough to start climbing again. After some time, I finally willed myself to continue on, and began arduous process of jumaring the overhanging pitch. Nearing the top of the pitch, the beam of my headlamp flickered over a small ledge about 15ft to the left of the route; just what I needed. Amazed at my luck, I swung over to it, but was disappointed to find that it was little more than a foot wide, and, much worse, it sloped by about thirty degrees. It was by far the worst ledge I had ever considered sleeping on, but it would have to do, for I knew I didn’t stand a chance at continuing without some rest. I arranged myself on the ledge with a taught leash, and my feet in aiders, and spent the next five hours repeatedly drifting off to sleep only to immediately wake up again when I slid off the ledge. By 4AM, I finally got tired of falling off the damn ledge, and decided I was wasting my time here. With that, I flicked my headlamp back on and continued jugging the pitch.
The next pitch, while technically easy, was a great struggle to complete. My movements were sluggish, and inept, and my lids were heavy. The only thing preventing me from making a deadly mistake in my exhausted state, was the fear of that possibility, which kept me remarkably alert. The sun rose as I cleaned the pitch, and at the same time my headlamp died, which was incredibly lucky as I had forgotten to bring spare batteries. The next pitch led to Peanut ledge, and while it too proved difficult for my weary body, the sunlight that now lit the sky gave me strength that I didn’t have during the night. When I reached Peanut Ledge though, it was with great self-control that I did not immediately collapse, and sleep, but instead proceeded to rappel, and clean the pitch. Upon reaching Peanut Ledge for the second time, I had just enough time to put my jacket on before I collapsed from exhaustion, and fell into a deep sleep. My slumber did not last long though, for not two hours after passing out, the sun came around the corner, and the heat made sleeping impossible.
I had plenty of water, and all day to climb the last three pitches though, so I relaxed, ate the rest of my food, and relished just being there. In many ways it felt as though the climb was over, I had survived the night, and had climbed all the hardest pitches. For the entire climb it seemed I been focused, not on getting to the top, but just on getting to Peanut Ledge. I could have stayed there all day just soaking it all in, but I didn’t have enough water for another night out, so I started climbing again at about 11AM. The last three pitches were easy, and fairly uneventful; rather anticlimactic after the previous nights events. The top-out however, was spectacular. At the very top of the wall a sharp overhang presented itself, and as I traversed under it, feet swinging wildly, the entire wall spilled beneath my feet. Then as I pulled over the lip, I found myself suddenly on flat ground, thrust from the vertical world, straight into the horizontal without warning.
I promptly fixed my lines, rappelled, and cleaned the last pitch. As I pulled over the rim for the second, and final time, I checked my watch: 3:30PM, 35.5 hours from the time I left the ground. Not quite the time I had been hoping for, but I realized that I probably couldn’t have done it much faster. The climb had been the hardest of my life, and in all honesty, it couldn’t have gone much better.
I headed down the descent with a spring in my step, and a feeling of euphoria that could only come from a climb such as this one. It was moments like this that I lived for. This was why I climbed.
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phoolish
Boulder climber
Athens, Ga.
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Jan 20, 2006 - 02:42am PT
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I wrote this and posted it to rc.com a long time ago, about a bouldering trip during spring break of either 2002 or 2003. I forget which.
Begin
I just flew in from Hueco
And Boy Are My Arms Tired
trip report + photos by yours truly
Sunday morning, 7:15. Come awake, but barely. That unfiltered wheat beer last night was entirely too good to have just one. Or just two. Step into the shower and spend a bunch of time sniffing the soap; it always snaps happy people awake in those commercials. Those commercials lie. Anyway, I finish up, towel off, dress in my standard travel/climbing garb (structure pants and an "i'm a rocker i rock out" hoodie. f*#k off, prana), and wake up the roommie, Alan - he's going to be 1/3 of our little expedition, and he always oversleeps. Just as my knuckles hit his door, the phone rings. It's Seth, the third third of the aforementioned expedition and far and away the strongest. I'm somewhat worred about it being cool going on a bouldering trip with someone who sends five grades harded than the other two, but that fear utterly fails to pan out. Seth is just outside the apartment. Alan goes to let him in, and I start frantically grabbing the stuff that I should have packed last night, tossing everything willy-nilly into a few little canvas bags of the sort that you see middle aged hippies carrying into grocery stores. The three of us gather the all our sh#t together and wedge it into the back of the subaru wagon that's going to be home for the next 24 hours solid.
And we're off. Road trip music is crucial, and we all know this, so we start out with Sublime's What I Got. We're zipping down highways, and we're through Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi (I hate typing Mississippi; it always feels wrong), and Louisiana in what seems like no time at all. Texas, on the other hand, drags for f*#king eternity. And whoever designed that goddamned state forgot to put texture in. Even the Hueco Mountains, near the end of the trip, just look like lumps of desert some bastard god was too lazy to stir in properly. Anyway, after a brief sojourn down Hueco Ranch Road (DEFINITELY NOT THE RIGHT WAY) we find the Hueco Rock Ranch and the park. It's about 6:15 local time, and we've been on the road for slightly more than one full day. We step out at the ranch, and some dude from Pheonix fills us in the ranch policies and sh#t.
Then we see Hueco.
Hueco Tanks is not what I expected. It's not a boulderfield. It's not a vast area filled with problems over flat desert landings. It's granite, and it's f*#king bulletproof. I've never touched rock that solid ever.
We hit the boulders as soon as the park opens, figuring that this would be a warm-up day and that we'd take it easy. Alan managed to catch a few hours sleep curled up in the back seat; neither Seth nor I managed much at all. We hit the warm-up boulder because it's the first chalked up problem we see. There's a picnic table there on a concrete pad next to it, and Seth wants to check some high holds. He steps up top, steps down, and sprains his ankle. Bad. Swelling, freaky purple colors, instability, the works. And we haven't even touched a problem yet. It's an honest-to-god tragedy.
Seth, however, is both strong as hell and tough. He takes a seat while Alan and I pull our shoes on. We step up to boulder, find some start holds, and set some feet. Then BOOM, my feet blow as soon as I weight them. I'm all WTF? and scrutinize the foothold. It's crazy; glass isn't half that slick. I try again, and the same thing happens. Finally, Seth gets a shoe over his meat balloon of a left foot and steps down. He notes the crazyslick feet and campuses a problem, starting on some jugs and going up and left. No feet, no problem. The trip motto is set: IGNORE YOUR FEET AND PULL HARD.
We sort of dick around at the mushroom boulder for the rest of the day. Local Flakes, by the way, is not exactly V2. No One Gets Out Alive is V2. Either that, or gentle overhangs with crimps are hard as f*#k. It could be either.
On day two, we come across some folks from Pheonix, working rattlesnake left. Seth steps on and sends immediately, starting a sending train that even I joined. If their stated grade was right (v4), then it was my hardest known send of the trip. I think I got it by being tall. I also earned some bloody knuckles falling from my first attempt. I sent maybe 3rd try. We stick with the other folks for much of the day. Ice falls from the sky at some point. Also, we make the helltrek into the Gymnasium.
To get into the Gymnasium, you've got to squeeze through a narrow opening between two boulders and then chimney down about 10 feet, probably carrying a bunch of sh#t, all to get to very few interesting problems. I hate sketchy approaches, and this definitely counts. Once we're down there, Alan sends some sh#t, I take some pictures, and we all work this cool black watergroove with a hard left-arm lockoff crux. Seth sends straight away. Neither Alan nor I send, even after 6 or 7 tries.
Day three, we're getting kinda worked; everybody's tired, and it's looking grim. We head out for a morning session at the mushroom boulder, and I get spanked off of local flakes a few more times.
All of a sudden, a crazy bunch of dudes shows up, stepping to the El Murray problems with a vengeance. Seth scopes some new foot beta and sends the Center El Murray totally casual. He beats the strong guys to it, even. Then Lisa Rands shows up, and we've got a magical, ultra-rad mushroom boulder session in full swing. Seth sends a couple of other things, and we're off for lunch and to hunt for some more problems.
The world's greatest pinch awaits us, in a cave to the left of the chain leading to the top of north mountain. The problem starts on a rad pinch and a little crimp, goes to a crimp, bumps to a mad nice sloper, and tops out. Seth sends with no trouble, and Alan follows, with me taking pictures the whole time. I send in short order, we cook up some bean paste, and then head to camp and crash HARD.
Day four: we're hella worked. Dead skin, dead muscles, worked-over brains, it's amazing we've got the steam to drag our fool asses up that chain and to the No One Gets Out Alive roof. Here's how hard we're worked: I campused the move from inside the lip to the roof jug without any trouble on day two - now I can't even get that bastard with feet. Discouraged, Alan and I both leave without a send.
Then we find the New Meadow.
These are the kinds of problems we've been waiting for. Powerful, technical, beta-dependant, and now utterly out of reach. Seth gets a couple of things, and I send some way easy sh#t with these Austin cats named John and Holly, and Alan gets a nap in the sun. Lobster Claw spanks me. Lobster Claw spanks Seth, though not nearly as badly. Lobster Claw doesn't even get a chance to spank Alan; he's doesn't step on; he knows his limit.
We play for a few more hours, and decide to get gone and on the long muf*#kin road back to Athens.
Next time, I'm buying a damn guidebook and taking rest days.
*finis*
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Zander
Trad climber
Berkeley
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Jan 20, 2006 - 11:49pm PT
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Phantom Pinnacle TR
My buddy Tony wanted to do the climb. He told me it had a reputation as being "old school". My friends think I have a thing about "old school" climbs when, in fact, I just don't have the talent to do anything put up after 1960. I was busy on the weekends so I had to take a day off work which made it all that much better. It was in late October or early November, I can't remember. We drove up from Berkeley and started hiking in about 9:00. You sort of clamber and thrash your way around to the left of the Cathedral Spires. Tony had a great drawing from an early Roper guide that showed just where it is. It's not hard to find it though. Just keep going around up to the left, don't go up any small gullies, and eventually you'll see it.
Here's a picture from the ground.
The first pitch is rated 5.4. We enjoyed that the first move off the ground was at least 5.6. The heart of the pitch is a 60 degree trough, filled with leaves, plenty of holds, until there is a slick section. I slipped at this point and caught myself. As I was about 15 feet out I dug down through the leaves to put in a piece. The second pitch is devious 5.7. If you climb it just right it's no problem. You face in, then right-semi chimneying, then turn to the left and stem. Unfortunately, Tony didn't turn left to stem and it turned into a 5.10 offwidth. I really haven't caught that many 16 foot leader falls. We kinda talked it over for a while. He hadn't fallen on 5.7 in 25 years. After a while he went up and finished the pesky pitch.
Pitch 2
Pitch three is rated 5.9. It is easier than the second pitch of Reed's Direct (which I have not been able to lead) so it's must be true. I went a little too high in the initial 5.7 chimney but a small bit of down climbing transferred me into the 5.9. Steep moves with stem rests and good pro. It pretty continuos but even for me it was OK. The day was getting along at this point so we decided if Tony could run together pitches 4 and 5 he should. Pitch 4 is 5.7 and 5 is supposed to have only one 5.9 move. He cranked out the 5.7 without trouble but was struggling with the "5.9" so he set up a belay and called me up. It says something about his mental state after his fall because the "5.9" move he was trying to do was actually 30 ft of, probably, 5.10c/d lieback. I moved up and around the corner to the belay bolts where I took these pictures.
One of Sentinel and one up towards the summit of the pinnacle. We were both feeling a little wimpy at this point and decided that rappelling in the dark was not allright. So we retreated. We made it to the ground at full darkness. You could probably rappel with only one 200 ft. rope but we had two ropes. The hike out took a little less than two hours. We are definitely going back for that last 70 feet.
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WBraun
climber
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Jan 21, 2006 - 12:05am PT
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Free soloed this route (left side of Phantom Pinnacle) a couple of times and it's a classic obscurity. The right side was first freed by the one and only Gramicci & Roger Breedlove. The second pitch of the right side is very serious so be careful.
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Karl Baba
Trad climber
Yosemite, Ca
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Jan 21, 2006 - 02:37am PT
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Thanks for the beta and photos of Phantom pinnacle. I always wanted to do that one but never got around to it.
It has a rep for being a good route. Have to admit it looks more like a pile in those photos
Peace
Karl
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Brutus of Wyde
climber
Old Climbers' Home, Oakland CA
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Jan 22, 2006 - 12:14am PT
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Here's an old one, from July 2000.
Mystery Mountain
The sunburned faces of the Scots seem a paradoxical contrast to the
three feet of newly fallen snow. They tell a tale of storms and fear, of
chest-deep snow and rain deluge. They'll fly out tomorrow. The
avalanches from the surrounding peaks present a constant roar, like a
never-ending waterfall.
Em the Avalanche Poodle tucks her tail between her legs, backs into the
tent and hides under a sleeping bag. We see nothing of her but a pink
wet nose for the next week, as we wait for the avalanches to abate.
Finally Poodle emerges, blinking in the bright sunlight. Whether she's
gone deaf to the constant roar of the avalanches, or whether the
sweltering temperature in the tent, plus lack of water, finally drove
her out, we're not sure. But the Poodle is ready to climb, at last.
Camp One: 8,100 feet. The cirque is a blast furnace. Snow conditions are
abominable, the crust deteriorating into bottomless unconsolidated sugar
sometimes as early as 9 am. We've spent the last eight hours chopping a
tent platform into the only avalanche-safe real estate within one day's
travel. As if to add insult to injury and exhaustion, this evening it
starts to snow.
Bail, bail, we all turn tail.
The storm continues for another 36 hours, first dropping snow, then
rain, as we hunker in base camp.
Camp One, again. Carry a load up through the Bravo Icefall into the
Cauldron, where we roast for the remainder of the day, as below us
avalanches and seracfall strafe the path back to camp One.
Finally sunset brings freezing temperatures to the icefall, and Em and I
make quick work of the descent back to camp.
The Cauldron: back we are, with packs bursting. The plan is to get
everything up the headwall in one carry.
The Headwall: Snow plastered to a rock wall that would itself present a
challenging 5th class climb. Three pitches and we finally pull over the
top, to collapse in the bottomless unconsolidated snow of the upper
Bravo Glacier. After ten steps through the crotch-deep slush, we stop.
This will be Camp Two. It's 11 am.
"Bruce, I can't do this."
Em stands poised at the brink of a chasm. The obvious move is a jump
across the crevasse with her 80-pound pack, while swinging the axe for
purchase on the far side. I carefully explain the move to her: "Yes,
you can. Count of three: One, Two, THREE!" I punctuate the last word
with a huge encouraging tug on the rope.
She's across, the last difficulty before Spearman Saddle is behind. By
10 am, we're probing for crevasses, chopping snow blocks for Camp Three.
Above, the summit of Mystery Mountain gleams from between the clouds.
1 am. Watch alarm. soft roar of the stove. muffled, efficient
conversation focused on the business at hand. Summit day.
Less than 200 feet away, across an inconceivable void, the Tooth shoots
into the sky like a Patagonian spire. Impossible gargoyles of rime leer
from the vertical rock. Up broken blocks I scamper to the base of an
ice-choked chimney. Shreds of rope from once-desperate struggles wander
up and across the rock, into the clouds. Eyeing the ice in the throat
of the chimney, I remove my right crampon and heft my ice hammer. Then,
in true alpine fashion, grab a strand of rope which disappears under the
ice after a few feet. Stem, scrabble, scrape. left frontpoint shattering
verglas, right boot vibram smearing on smooth rock, running out of fixed
rope the hammer swings into the ice-filled cracks numb knuckles smashing
on ice pack is caught under an overhang as my right boot shoots off the
rock sliding over unseen ice swing hammer again desperate pulling over
the lip of the chockstone to see the "fixed" rope dissolve into a tangle
of shredded core strands choking feet flailing in air grab a rock in the
gully desperately seeking handholds the rock pries out of the ice with
me still attached flop on my belly breathing like a sprinter at the
finish line finally over the crux near blacking out...
The relics of past epics festoon this nightmare tower... faded slings
and carabiners hang forlornly from fixed gear out on the vertical walls
to the right and left.
Off comes my other crampon as I tiptoe up dry rock, bypassing another
chockstone.
It starts to snow, very lightly. Finally belay, crux of the Southeast
Chimney behind.
Em joins me. We spend a few precious moments sipping water, glopping
more sunscreen, munching a lemon drop. Then back to the vertical race.
Upward, following a line of fixed knifeblade pitons through the
strenuous Direct finish. Scamper across ice-slick slabs to the base of a
steep snow gully. Weave through the cliff bands and gargoyles, back into
crampons, fantastic ice-sculptures of solidified cloud plastered to the
rock in gravity-defying lattices.
Summit. We perch, one at a time, balancing on the highest point. The
hoped-for views are but a fantasy, the summit enclosed in a cold gray
cell of lenticular madness.
Rappelling down through cloud. Pitons tugged out by hand at rap
stations... Descent down the fantastic ice gully of "Wadd Hose"
rebuilding each rap station as we go... rappelling off the ends of the
rope just over the bergschrund... 50m and rope stretch puts us back in
hip deep snow on the sloshing, plowing descent back to Spearman Saddle
where we collapse in camp at 7:30 p.m. completely happy, completely
exhausted, knowing that a long and intricate descent still lies ahead in
the coming days.
Far above, the last light of day baptizes the burnished summit of
Mystery Mountain with the crimson hues of blood.
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