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matisse
Trad climber
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Topic Author's Original Post - Jan 20, 2006 - 01:50am PT
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Trip report. Lagavulin Direct (V5, 5.10, A5).
(previously posted on rec.climbing some time ago)
As I surveyed my objective, I though back over the last year. As is almost always the case, it was a complicated series of events, that had brought me here to attempt this first solo ascent. Discovered in 1992, with the expansion of the Schoene-Seattle Home for Climbers, the route had been growing in complexity since its inception. The much vaunted Basement Bathroom direct route had intimated many of the experienced mountaineers who had surveyed its expanse, contributed to it and turned back to leave it intact for only the truly insane or the testosterone addled novice. Kitty Calhoun and Colin Grissom had bivied here in the winter of 1993, and added many of the outstanding features. Peter Hackett undoubtedly had made his mark as only Hackett could. Did Greg Child contribute I wondered? What about Brashears? I had heard rumors of his visit although it was widely alleged that he had too much class to stay at the Home. Bill Sumner? Almost certainly, I thought, awed by the hallowed presence of so many famous people. Possibly Hornbein too, I mused, although I was uncertain whether, in his wisdom gained by many years in the mountains, if Tom had even descended to the basement, deemed by many a worthwhile objective in of itself.
Certainly, I had been able to resist the route and many others around the Home, since I first began traveling here. In February of 1988, a fledgling scientist, I had first arrived at the Home as part of the process of completing my Ph.D. thesis. An neophyte, I had been unprepared for the long days of arduous data collection followed by evening of late nights and heavy drinking. But now, hardened after 10 years of intense research, a steady diet of english muffins, coffee and single malts, and honed by hours at the bottom of the academic food chain, I told myself I was ready.
As usual I was at the Home in pursuit of the Advancement of Science. This time it was going to be different. We were on the verge of a major scientific breakthrough, which, if we were right, was going to launch us all to fame, if not fortune. The Garlic study was slated to begin the very next day. High altitude pulmonary edema is a sometime fatal condition affecting climbers to high altitude. High pressures in the blood vessels of the lungs, caused by hypoxia plays a major part in the development of HAPE. Earlier in the year, while aimlessly surfing the net, I had discovered hidden in the bowels of a journal an unheralded study showing that the consumption of the equivalent of 4 large raw cloves of garlic a day completely inhibited the effect of hypoxia on the pressures in the lung blood vessels of rats. We were poised to repeat this research in humans. We were filled with the promise of a paradime shift.
The opportunity to tackle the Basement Bathroom Direct route had caught me by surprise. I had been expecting a fairly typical Home stay: periods of frenetic activity punctuated by Laugavulin induced malaise. Heated philosophical debate mixed with excesses of discussion of naked women. There was no reason to expect this time was going to be any different. I was not planning to be one of the naked women. The Christmas issue of Playboy, featuring Katerina Witt's tits, lay splayed among the issues of Climbing mag and R+I. My friend Mark, a newcomer to the Home was expected from Vancouver later in the day. My host left to drive to soccer practice.
I was having a off day, stung by my latest rejection, this time from the Supine Alpine Club. The four charter members of the elitist all male club, had never opened their ranks to anyone. Central to club membership, was lack of aspirations to do anything, including become a member. Of course I wanted desperately not to belong and was thrilled by my rejection even though I met all of the membership criteria: substantial capacity for alcohol consumption, complete lack of ambition, oldness, fatness, laziness. Bastards! I thought, F*#k 'um. I contemplated a class action lawsuit on behalf of old, fat, lazy women. Then it struck me. A feat that would disqualify me forever! A feat of mountaineering so bold, so audacious, that it had only been attempted once in its history, and without success. My head buzzing, I was alive with the possibilities a successful expedition would bring.
I had been witness to the previous attempt. In June of 1997, a party of three brave men, after an epic of rain, fog, sleet and mud on Slesse, had retreated to survey the basement. Undaunted, by the occasionally flushing toilet they had established a new route, cleaning the toilet and part of the sink. Noxious fumes had forced a retreat before the shower and floor could be completed. Consequently, the entire bathroom, untouched by cleaning products since then, had never been attempted, and only a lunatic would attempt it solo. I would be that lunatic. I brought few qualifications to the job: I was not especially fit, another visit to the orthopedic surgeon in April had taken care of that. I was not a well known mountaineer; Carlos Buhler had once had a shower at my house, but that had been many years ago. My skiing credentials were a little better and in the winter of 1983 I had been voted the chick with the biggest balls by the Whistler boys. Now I scratched my figurative balls. Imaginary testosterone surged through my veins. The weather was perfect, rain lashed the windows. I entered the basement and stood at the door.
Somehow routes always seem lower, easier and warmer when surveyed from the imagination and the bar, and this bathroom was no exception. In reality, the expanse was breathtaking, and never before had I seen such mixed complexity all in one route. From the encrusted porcelain in front of me demanding complex tooling techniques to the multi-pitch expanse of the orange slime festooned big wall to my right it was a truly an intimidating sight. I looked down at my rack. At the top of the basement stairs it had appeared solid, functional, more than adequate. Now I was not so sure: The Murphy's oil soap, was it powerful enough? I had no such concerns about the old standby Comet. I was sure it was up to the task. But had I packed enough? Surely one full can was sufficient. Or was it? Doubt surged through my brain. For reassurance I checked my secret weapon: one almost full bottle of "Out-U-Scum". I fingered the trigger. Now was the time to commit. I was going to do it.
The going at first was easier than expected. The socks and Tevas I had borrowed at the last minute from the floor of my hosts closet seemed to be doing their job and several pitches of the sink, solid crust with unremarkable pro, fell uneventfully below. Lulled by a sense of security, I foolishly turned to the shower. The shower had been the subject of much debate over the years. Just how thick was the orange crust? Was it the crux? Or, in reality, was the toilet the crux. At least I knew the toilet had been successfully completed before. Man, or in my case- woman, against shower stall had never been tested. If I can just get through the shower, I thought, it will be clear from here. I held onto that thought like a mantra. I reached for the Out-U-Scum, I opened the stall door, I took a deep breath, held it, and sprayed.
The next thing I knew I was on the floor, lungs burning, gasping for air. Hypoxia addled my brain. A toxic fog surrounded me, and I knew I had to act quickly or risk death. Gingerly, I stood in my aiders. Sweat trickled down my back, my nose itched, I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs. I exhaled to make myself lighter. Slowly, methodically, I scraped over the walls. Phew. I rapped out the door. Now the toilet. Possibly the previous attempt helped, or possibly my brain was oxygen starved, but the time seemed to pass quickly and the entire can of comet and the not so mysterious brown slabs soon fell below. I was exhausted, my arms burning, my fingers raw. There still was the floor to go. Would this route never end? Tiredly I knelt and started in behind the toilet with my meager sponge. My brain thick, I was not going to make it at this rate. I contemplated my mortality. Suddenly a gift appeared from nowhere. A 12"x18"angelic vision of nubbly cotton its logo proudly emblazoned at its perimeter: Hilton. Desperately I grabbed it and thrust it in the direction of the floor. My breathing coming easier now, the end was here.
I backed out the door and staggered up the stairs and fell on the couch. Katerina's tits stared at me. Strangely despondent I thought of Hornbein's words " It is strange how when a dream is fulfilled there is little left but doubt". I would be famous. I had succeeded where others had failed. The first complete bathroom mission. Solo. Those bastards will never take me now. I named my route Lagavulin direct in honor of the House beverage. The kitchen could wait for someone else I thought tiredly. I heard Mark at the door.
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pc
climber
Eastside
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Jan 20, 2006 - 11:57am PT
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A proud expedition. Well done and well documented.
mmmm...Islay Single Malt
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David Nelson
climber
San Francisco
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Jan 20, 2006 - 05:20pm PT
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This is a scream. A great parody of published TR's (online posts are rarely so theatrical), with a definite British accent. I was reading for 10 min before I could understand what I was reading: a parody.
Either I am slow, or a slow reader, or this was very very well done.
But why the cross posting?
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matisse
Trad climber
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Topic Author's Reply - Jan 21, 2006 - 11:32am PT
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David wrote "why the cross posting?"
If you mean why didn't I just link the rec.climbing version, its because this is a piece that I'm continually refining. I've reworked the language a teenie bit since the rec.climbing days. If you mean why didn't I post it in the TR thread, well I didn't want to disappoint the people who were looking for a real TR. (I did clean that damn bathroom though, and it took me all flippin day).
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