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Bldrjac
Ice climber
Boulder
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Sep 12, 2009 - 02:08am PT
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Roy,
Just reread this piece about Mugs. Thanks for posting it as it brought back some memories that had laid dorment for a long time. Not the least of which is that Michael Kennedy is a brilliant writer.
Cheers.........JR
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Jaybro
Social climber
Wolf City, Wyoming
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Sep 12, 2009 - 09:25am PT
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So that's the story of the Acid traverse? Cool! I expected Yabo to look like a Unicorn....
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survival
Big Wall climber
A Token of My Extreme
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Sep 13, 2009 - 10:42am PT
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Nice job you guys!
I love this thread.
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SteveW
Trad climber
The state of confusion
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Sep 13, 2009 - 10:28pm PT
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Bump for Chiloe!!!!!
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MisterE
Social climber
Across Town From Easy Street
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Apr 10, 2010 - 06:17pm PT
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One more story:
Adventure Gaping At Washington Pass: A TR
Mike Layton was back in town, so of course we simply had do some disturbing, vile and painful activities. We met up at one of the worst dives in Bellingham, Mike all beaming:
“Isn’t this place great! And look! Free popcorn!”
It all started with disturbing.
Mike suggested we do a climb, so I updated my living will and agreed. I explained to him that I had been immersed in work and hadn’t climbed in 8 months, as well as working tirelessly on my beer gut.
He immediately suggested we try the Northwest face of South Early Winter Spires, at Washington Pass.
I was excited, having never climbed at any of the Early Winter spires, and only a couple of routes in the whole area.
Then he whipped out the topo, and I saw the crux pitch just said “5.11".
“I was thinking you could lead that pitch.” he said casually.
“Sweet Baby Jesus, Mike!” I responded, “did you hear me? I am THIS close to being a Curling Fan!”
Without a pause, Mike went on with his topographical litany,
“We really need to make sure we stay away from The Dolphin here on this pitch after the crux (he points to a horrible looking offwidth/chimney), and just look at the double roofs above, blah, blah.....”
There was no deterring this monster, I thought grimly to myself, turning over in my mind the lunacy I outwardly had just agreed to. I didn’t think I could climb “The Dophin” if my life depended on it.
He said he had a guide friend in Mazama that we could stay with, and “he knows how to party!” I reluctantly agreed to leave on Saturday night. Plus, conditions looked stellar: mid-to-upper 60's, clear skies, and Lord knows, probably not another party on the route.
Next came vile, an important element to all good adventures.
Mike called ahead, we grabbed a couple of tallboy sixers and headed East. When we got there, his friend was not around, and I was thankful to note that our 1/2 case was the only booze in the fridge. We knocked back a few around 8-ish, and I was thinking it was going to be a mellow night (thank God), when Mike whipped out a flask of good scotch.
“I brought this to help us sleep!” He said, unaware of my weakness for a good highland. Uh-oh.
He then informed me that his friend was at a Blues Festival just a few miles away - did I feel like going?
Thinking about the one-hour approach at high elevation with a full compliment of climbing gear, I politely made the hard decision.
We kicked back and enjoyed the quiet Mazama Evening. Very soon we were on our fourth tallboy and several strong pulls from the flask. His friend showed up a bit later, saying he skipped the Bluesfest and hotties for an evening with us. He also had quite a bit more beer. Of course, we felt obliged to provide drunken entertainment, and all soon turned to full-out debauchery. Sometime around 11:00, I realized that 6AM comes damn early, but I am not even tired, but Mike is nothing if not the consummate provider. He whips out three tablets of valerian root, hands them to me, and says: “This will help.” 45 minutes later I drift off to a blissful sleep, Mike and his friend still raging in the cabin.
Painful: Waking up at 6:05, I felt like my head had been put in the log-splitter that hovered above our pillows in the yard. I had no alarm, but Mike (who had the alarm) is still fast asleep. “Wake up, ya bastard!” I groaned woefully in his direction and we were up. A quick bite to eat, some coffee, a fair bit of water, and we got ready to go. Mike walked over to a red pile of something.
“Cherries from last night,” he explained, “I forced myself to puke,” he said, “and I set the alarm for 6:30, thinking the extra half hour would do us good”.
Another 5 hours would have done me, especially considering what we were about to undertake. Hey! If I go back to sleep, we can skip this altogether!
I quickly dismissed this idea, and we took off towards the pass, sipping our coffees and waiting for the ibuprophen to kick in.
I actually felt ok as we started hiking, but Mike’s world is still swimming. Behind him, I get some satisfaction from this. We passed several parties of people on the well-maintained trail, one hiker party who had a Malamute Husky pup (this becomes important later). A climbing party of a man and what looked like his daughter asked us how we were doing.
“Hungover”, Mike responded.
The man shook his head as we passed.
There is some twisted enjoyment to forcing the previous evening’s poison out of your system I realized as we hiked, and I could smell the scotch coming from my pores.
At the base, we false started, then found the route. There was little to no chalk on this route, and I thought: not good. As we were getting ready, a goat wandered by and Mike shot a picture as it traversed across the steep slope below.
The altitude was sapping, but we took a short break, then Mike started out on the initial “10.b” pitch. Within minutes he was cursing and whining, and eventually had a take on the gear. .10b? Mike? Hmmmmm...
I start to worry immediately about my .11 pitch, which is next.
As he was climbing the pitch I looked down and saw the Malamute pup from the hiking party running up and past me. The pup had spotted the goat, chased and caught it.
I must admit I was a negligent belayer as I watched the following scene unfold before my eyes:
The pup chased the goat onto a rock where he started to sniff it curiously. The goat stomped it’s feet repeatedly on the rock to warn off the dog, but puppy remained undeterred. The dog then charged the goat, who lowers it’s head, and somehow catches the dog sideways on its head between horns and the crown of it’s head. The quite large dog looked like a head drapery as the goat lifted its head, turned sideways, and dumped the dog 15 feet over rock onto the scree below. There were some serious puppy cries as the dog tumbled, got onto wobbly legs and ran by me again. Totally aghast, I scanned the retreating dog for blood, but saw none. Soon, I heard the call of the owner, and I yelled down to her: “ I would check your dog out, he just got attacked by a goat!” She stares at me for a minute in disbelief, then says in a broken voice, “Thanks!”. I could hear the desperation in her voice as she resumed calling for her dog, who now wanted mommy and was well on it’s way.
I don’t know why I said the goat attacked the dog, maybe out of kindness for the situation. It was just the opposite.
I relayed all of this to Mike, who was amazed, even though he was probably cursing me inwardly for not paying attention to the belay. I was too shocked to even think about a camera, and really didn’t have time. Damn! Plus, I WAS belaying...
Mike got to the anchors and brought me up through difficult placements, and tenuous laybacking and jams. I felt bad about the belay. I got it clean, but was thinking .10c. Then I thought I am an out of shape fat bastard, and I am way above my normal elevation. The last thought held little comfort for my approaching pitch.
The topo states the next pitch as “jam a steep arching crack”, and it is pretty obvious we were in the right place, so I grab the rack and set off. Mike had pre-placed a couple of pieces claiming “it doesn’t look that hard”. I begged to differ, and about halfway got into some solid .10 climbing. Struggling through that, I was feeling pleased with myself, when I got shut down. The upper part of the short pitch had almost no purchase in the crack, my left foot was asleep from painful 3/4" toejams, and my right foot skittered uselessly on a black waterstreak. I tried repeatedly without success, so three points of aid later I reached the belay and brought Mike up. He fared much better than me, but also got shut down at the top, declaring it hard 5.11. I agreed, glad that I wasn’t the weak-ass that I had feared as I aided through that part.
Pitch three saw Mike leading out of a small alcove, where the mosquitos and I had some lunch together. Mike got up a ways, declared he was off route, and downclimbed for 40 feet or so. I hear a “this is great!” from above, as I payed out another 50 feet. Then: “Damn it! I am downclimbing.” The rope pooled yet again at my feet, but I didn’t care. I was still pretty wiped from the .11 pitch.
Then: “This is so messed up!” and finally: “Off belay!” Following, I understood the confusion. There is a sweet crack to the left as I climbed out of the alcove, yet the rope snaked up a dirty crack directly in front of me. Climbing through moss and dirt with occasional recently-cleaned places for gear, I wondered.
Arriving at the belay, Mike said the nice crack to the left had dwindled to nothing at the top. He had only placed two pieces of gear in 50 feet, and declared the ensuing 5.8 downclimb “spicy”.
It looked like I was getting the draw of the 5.10 double roofs, so I set off. Undercling roof cracks scare me, I have never gotten used to large pieces of rock hanging over my head as I pull on their weakness. That was my excuse when after sizing up the initial crux, I offered Mike the lead. He lead in style, declaring the initial moves the crux. I followed, pulling on yet another piece to get through the section I couldn’t do earlier. The rest of the roof was fun, until I went to turn the last corner. Moving around, the flake rounded off miserably and I looked up for a hand jam. The rope was trailing in the crack where my hand needed to go. I barely got the rope out of the way, and set a couple shallow jams when I popped off. It was one of the most painful jam rips I have ever experienced. Immediately, blood blossomed from two points on my left palm, and two points on the back of my right hand. Dangling in space dripping blood, it took me 10 minutes to hook my toe in a crack and find purchase to get back to the roof corner. Shoving my pained, bloody hands back into the same moves was agonizing, but the only way out. I made sure the rope draped correctly, and got through it, whining like the puppy I had witnessed earlier. I continued cursing through the short offwidth and the 5.9 handjam section to a grinning Mike.
He looked at my hands, and said
“The topo says the rest is fourth class.”
I said I would take the lead, and Mike asked if I wanted to simulclimb?
Sure, I said, let me get a couple of pieces in, then you can start climbing.
“Just go, and when there is only 20 feet of rope left, I’ll give you a shout. It’s not that far to the summit.” I took off, and as I moved a few feet away, the smell of Mike’s cigarette wafted towards me, making me nauseous. I fairly sprinted over the rock.
50 meters later, the summit was still unattained, and the rope drag was so horrendous I could hardly move.
“This is why I always tie in short!” I cursed to myself.
Another 10 feet, and I was locked down. I yelled to Mike that I couldn’t move and he needed to catch up. I tied off a horn and brought him up. A short simulclimb later we reached the summit.
On the rappels down, we ran into the father with his daughter doing the moderate South Face, and he asked Mike:
“How is that hangover doing?”
“Worse.” Mike responded, and pointed to the two older guys that had just free-soloed past them, “But they’re hungover too!”
The man was obviously unhappy with our feckless behavior, and Mike was obviously pleased.
Postscript: we found out later that the move neither of us saw at the end of the arch? was a dyno to a tree branch. We just couldn’t figure that out at the time.
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survival
Big Wall climber
A Token of My Extreme
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Apr 24, 2010 - 10:55pm PT
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Pate.. .. .. .. .. . .. .. .
style.. .. .. . . . . .
histor. . .y.... ..
Bum. ....... . ... . . p
LOVE IT!!!
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hobo_dan
Social climber
Minnesota
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Apr 25, 2010 - 11:20am PT
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HashBro I thought your story was great
Thanks
murf
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MisterE
Social climber
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Nov 15, 2012 - 09:22pm PT
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Bump for some great stories.
Cross-post from another thread
I found this guy on the "partners forum" of CascadeClimbers.com and we decided to try Davis-Holland at Index for our first climb. I camped out overnight on the beautiful Skykomish river and the next morning I waited...and waited...
Finally he shows up a good 2 hours after our arranged time, and as he is getting his stuff together, casually asks me if I mind if he "inspects" my gear.
"I'm an engineer, you see." As if that explained it all.
He declared my rack "incomplete", and I say "I don't usually place a lot of gear."
This agitated him greatly, and he was eyeing me nervously. Just then he said, in a total non-sequiter,
"I think I have to shitt now"
...
"Umm, OK. Do your thing that you gotta do!"
"Well, I might be able to wait - how far is it?"
I told him, and he decided he could wait, after much verbalization of information about said bowel movement I didn't really need to hear.
Oh, this guys name soon becomes (to me) Bowel Movement Fixation Guy (BMFG, for short).
As we are walking up the trail, he asks me if I have toilet paper - he forgot his. I say yes, he says how much. I say plenty, he says let me see.
...
So we stop, and as I am taking my pack off, he launches into this story about an alpine trip that ANOTHER guy forgot his TP, and how angry he got, because he always has a certain amount with him, blah, blah blah.
I am starting to get irritated by BMFG.
He inspects the TP, declares it adequate, and promptly takes off up the trail ahead of me at a blistering pace, yelling back:
"I feel it coming, gotta hurry!"
Whatever.
At the base of the climb is further talk (on his part - I quickly learned this doesn't need my involvement, discussion-wise) about whether to go before climbing, or wait, and all of the hazards and pitfalls of not going before climbing.
Jesus, Dude! STFU, and get ready!
He finally gets all geared up for the first pitch, tied in,me on belay (my lead) and guess what? Now is the time! Drop harness, borrow my TP, and he's off again. I fully expect never to see any TP upon his return, given his bent.
He gets back,returns not-much TP and tells me all about it. I finally snap:
"Listen, man. I don't want to hear any more about your shitt!"
He seems crestfallen as we start climbing, but soon finds new diversion by criticizing my gear placements, and their infrequency. The next pitch is his, but he backs down - obviously nervous about climbing with such an "unsafe" climbing partner. So I lead again.
BMFG follows, and is shaken as he gets to the belay, then his eyes widen as he looks at my anchor points.
I am clipped in with two draws to 2 1/2 inch bolts with shiny hangers.
"What? No lockers? Your anchor isn't equalized!" he seems outraged that I would put his life at risk like that!
I'm done, and I tell him so. He balks, so I say:
"OK, your lead." That does it.
He offers to rappel first, after retying his own knot in the ropes because my overhand was "unsafe".
I'm getting pissed.
He yells up as the rope goes slack,
"Ummm, off belay, but the anchor isn't very good."
My God, what has this guy done? This route gets climbed and rapped more than any other route at Index in the 5.10 range!
I rap down and am flabbergasted by what I see: He has found a ratty old aid anchor with 1/4" rusty bolts (one is quite loose) and light grey webbing that is total tat. I look 10 feet to the right and 15 feet up from where he is, and there are shiny bolts with Metolius Rap rings. No way for him to get to them, so I am stuck going to HIS anchors. I am fvcking pissed.
I lose it, realizing that We have to rap to the ground off this crap anchor.
"This your choice of anchors" I say, pointing to the half-inchers'ers 20 feet away, "so you go first."
He gets upset by this, but I stand firm, as close to wishing tat would part as I have ever been.
We get down safe, and he sees a friend, so he decides to go visit.
"I'll be back in a minute and we can talk about what else we want to do!" he opines cheerfully.
As soon as he is out of sight, I quickly pack my gear and leave, being sure I don't have any of his gear. I get in my car and leave the climbing area.
An hour later, my phone rings. The ID reveals it's BMFG.
"Where did you go, Man? I waited at the car for you!"
I inform him in no uncertain terms that I will never climb with him again, citing: fixation, criticism, no head for trad climbing, inability to see what's around him, ad nauseum.
He lashes out, saying it was me, and like a pitbull, would not let it go. Finally, just to get off the phone, I say:
"Look, Dude. It was all my fault, OK? You are a great climber, whereas I am unworthy to climb with someone of your caliber"
(or some such shitt)
Finally, he accepts my apology, and I hang up.
It felt like I just broke up with a girlfriend
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drljefe
climber
El Presidio San Augustin del Tucson
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May 28, 2015 - 10:50pm PT
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BUMP
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dee ee
Mountain climber
Of THIS World (Planet Earth)
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May 30, 2015 - 05:43pm PT
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Here is one.
Epic on The North Face of San Jacinto
On this moonless night the darkness was complete. We hurried up the road by feel but the barking dogs were closing in on us. Rumored to be fierce Dobermans owned by the water district caretaker, they had us worried. We kicked it into high gear and hit the chain link fence at a dead run. Up and over in a second we switched on the headlamps and started up the streambed of Snow Creek.
In the predawn we approached the base of the north face of San Jacinto. Its 10,000 foot escarpment is said to be one of the tallest in the United States, Alaska included. It is an escarpment of Himalayan scale not two hours drive from the largest metropolitan area in the U.S. My friend Jim, my cousin Ken and I had driven by it many times on our trips to Joshua Tree and our curiosity had finally drawn us to it. It looks big from the highway but the deceiving effects of foreshortening are misleading. It is HUGE, a massive behemoth of rock and, in winter, snow and ice the size of the Wickersham Wall on Denali. It rises from the desert of Cabazon, at less than 1,000 feet, to its alpine summit at over 10,000 feet.
I had heard that climbers from San Diego climbed it annually as an early season warm-up for trips elsewhere. Other than that we had no information. The secrets to its ascent appeared in no guide books in those days (1980). In our ignorance we were drawn to its dominant feature, the huge north ridge which bisects the face. I found out later that the key was to follow one of the huge couloirs that drop to either side of the ridge. The couloirs were the logical and straightforward lines that we should have been looking at.
Our plan included a partial car shuttle. Leaving a car in Idyllwild and then driving to Snow Creek seemed like the best way to go. We would then climb the face and descend the other side to Idyllwild. We wanted to go light and therefore left anything that would make a night out tolerable. We carried daypacks with food, sweaters and cagoules. With youthful optimism, and foolishness, we also left out any safety equipment such as rope, ice axe and crampons. We reasoned that with the early start we would be down by dark and with the route choice we would be able to avoid any dicey stretches of snow or ice.
By first light the scale of the face was dawning on us. We were a couple thousand feet up and barely started. The summit still looked miles away. The going was steep Class 2 with sections of easy Class 3 and 4, mixed with boulder hopping and bush whacking. In the distance above we could see the snowy summit. High thick clouds filled the sky making it impossible to see the sun and muting the colors to dull shades. Shadows didn’t exist. We were stoked to be in the teeth of another big adventure.
By early afternoon we were way the hell up there. The terrain had turned more alpine with the scrub giving way to pine. Snow covered the ground. We figured we were at about the 7500 ft. level. A few hundred feet ahead a large cliff bared the way. It was several hundred feet high and several thousand wide. At first it looked impassable, but as we approached, we could see a weakness right up the middle. The closer we got the more doable it looked, maybe even as easy as class 4.
A series of interconnecting ledges and ramps led to the final steep section. Ken volunteered to go first. The least experienced climber of the group but with excellent judgement he would be a good gauge of its difficulty. Jim was in the middle, I was last. If Ken decided it was too hard we would descend and go the long way around.
The climbing was easy class 5 and with boots (not climbing shoes) we moved with care. Suddenly I heard an “oh no” from above. I looked up and realized Jim had high stepped into his “foam back” Chouinard cagoule and in a second he skated and was in the air. He flew over my head and, in a desperate attempt to catch himself, raked me with his hands as he went by. Involuntarily my whole body shuddered to prevent my getting pulled off as well. In horror I looked over my shoulder to see him bounce once and then disappear over the ledges 50’ below. Past that point it was 200’ vertical to bloody death on the rocks below.
Panic- stricken, Ken and I down climbed to the ledges and cautiously peered over. We were certain he was gone but to our surprise there he was caught in the branches of a small tree on the brink of the precipice. It was a damn miracle!
We pulled him out and after he had regained his senses scrambled up to the ledges. He was having intense chest pains associated with his breathing so we thought he probably had some broken ribs or worse, internal injuries. Other than that, assorted cuts and bruises were the only visible damage. We were filled with relief that he was alive at all. It was a fall that should have killed him. He had been stopped by the scrawniest of trees, one that resembled the Christmas tree in “A Charlie Brown Christmas.”
It didn’t seem likely that he could make it out under his own power so we made plans to go for a rescue. Ken would stay with him and I would hike out. We gathered firewood and got him comfortable in a nearby cave. Our position was so high on the mountain that I figured it might be better to go up, descend to Idyllwild, call the Riverside Search and Rescue and return with help. With an hour or so of light left I headed for the top.
The upper part of the mountain had been transformed the day before by a freezing rain or fog. Every rock and log, every pine needle on every tree had a thin sheath of ice. The ground crunched with my footfalls, and as I pushed through the brush, the breaking ice made faint tinkling sounds like glass chimes in the wind. It was a surreal and beautiful landscape. I was worried about Jim’s condition and pushed it as hard as I could go. The ridge merged with the top of the face not far ahead and with luck I could be over the top before dark.
It was just a few hundred feet to the top and the way was bared by one of the couloirs that stretched from the ridge near the peak to the bottom of the Snow Creek canyon 8000 feet below. I started kicking steps across the snow filled gully. As I progressed the snow got harder and harder. At first my boots kicked nice deep steps but soon I was kicking smaller and smaller edges for purchase. My entire being was focused on staying balanced. I was almost to the middle where the snow would start to get softer again and I would be home free.
Then I slipped. In a second I was gone. The acceleration was instantaneous and I realized there was nothing to stop me. In a moment of calm and clarity I knew I was dead. There was no reason for self pity or panic. 40 mph, 50 mph, 60 mph, it was the year of the winter Olympics and I was the one man luge! Scenes from my life came and went in a timeless mosaic. I slid feet first for a bit and then spun around and was rocketing along headfirst on my back. The scene was upside down but I could clearly see a huge boulder approaching rapidly. I was heading directly for it. “That is where I die”, I thought. A moment later I hit at full speed. A thin tongue of snow ran up the boulder in a perfect BMX jump arc. I launched into a vertical trajectory and stalled 30 or 40 feet in the air. In an upright position I dropped to the snow and post-holed through the snow to my knees. I came to a stop instantly. One knee and both shoulders were dislocated but the knee and one shoulder popped right back in! Intuitively I grabbed my left arm with my right and started twisting. The pain was blinding. I twisted farther and with a snap the left shoulder popped in. WHEW!
I could not believe my luck. But it wasn’t luck. Luck is when you win in Vegas. The very hand of God had reached down and plucked me from the jaws of death.
I was pretty rattled and had no choice but to continue. I had lost 1000-1500 feet in the fall which I now had to regain. However it was just about dark and I needed a place to spend the long cold winter’s night. I groveled out of the gully and worked my way through the sparse rocks and trees. They were spaced closely enough so that I could take each section like a boulder problem. I used a couple of sharp rocks to chop steps when needed and headed up. Soon I found a small cave and crawled in. It provided shelter from the wind and I was able to sleep for a good part of the night.
In the gray of pre-dawn I resumed the climb. Awhile later I reached the main ridge and crossed over to the less steep terrain beyond. The clouds were still thick and without shadows it was impossible to tell where the sun was and hence the direction of town. All I could do was go downhill and bear to the right and eventually I would have to hit a road many thousand feet below. So down I went for hours and hours. The snow was deep and at times I would struggle, knee to waist deep. Sometime in the late afternoon the snow was thinning and I hit a trail. A couple miles later it came out on a dirt road, which I followed. Then about an hour or so after dark I came across some cabins. I found one with a phone line leading to it. I broke a window and crawled inside. The phone was dead. Back to the road and off again. I wondered how my friends were doing since leaving them 28 hours earlier.
I passed a sign telling me that I was on the Black Mountain Road and a few miles later reached the highway. I lay down on the shoulder and waited. I fell asleep but was awakened by an approaching car. I jumped up and ran out on the highway waving my arms frantically and the car slowed. Instead of stopping the driver gunned it and was gone, you rat bastard! The next car, driven by a good Samaritan, picked me up and took me to the sheriff’s office in Idyllwild. By this time it was around midnight. The sheriff listened to my story and called the Riverside Search and Rescue Team.
At dawn the sheriff and I met the Riverside Search and Rescue guys down at Snow Creek. The wind was howling, gusting to 50+ mph, but soon the rescue helicopter approached and landed. The rescue guys were dead set against flying but the pilot was gung-ho and wanted to go for it. I found out later that he was a mega-experienced veteran of both the Korean and Viet Nam wars and was afraid of nothing! So the pilot, Bernie (the head Riverside S. & R. guy) and I hopped in and headed up. The flying was super technical and the wind buffeted us. He gunned the dual jet engines to full power to keep the little chopper under control.
From our vantage point in the air the North Face seemed even bigger. Up and up we went toward the spot where I had last seen my friends about 36 hours earlier. I prayed that they were still ok. We were almost high enough when I glanced off to the left and there they were! I could see Ken standing on a large boulder on the very knife edge of the ridge waving his jacket over his head. Jim was sitting nearby.
There was no place to land for miles but this didn’t faze the pilot. He brought the chopper down and put one skid on the boulder, flying at ground level. In seconds Bernie jumped out and Ken and Jim jumped in. I fastened their seat belts and we were airborne again, leaving Bernie alone to wait for a return flight.
So, yeah, we all survived. Jim did have a couple broken ribs and I had a chronic dislocating shoulder for years after. The helicopter pilot died later that same year though. He was involved in a project building Bighorn Sheep watering holes up in the Red Rock area in Nevada. He was flying building materials into the Sierra Club volunteers and packed it in. It was a tragic and ironic end for him after so many combat flights.
The experience taught me a whole lot about surviving in the mountains, lessons that have served me well on many far more technical ascents since. I will rarely set foot in the snow without an ice axe. If we had taken a rope, ice axe, crampons, map and compass it would have been a cruise.
The next year Ken and I returned and had a fun climb up the face. We took all of the afore mentioned items, had a safe trip, and spent a beautiful but bitterly cold night near the summit. While we were low in the couloir we noticed evidence that a huge avalanche had poured through the gulley not long before. Mountains of snow mixed with broken trees led to the narrow section where there was debris 200-300 feet up on the side. Clearly the flow that had gone through here was voluminous. We hurried to the relative safety of the more open slopes beyond. I heard a story later that confirmed that our experience wasn’t the only miracle that had taken place on the face. An elderly Austrian fellow, that we knew as the “Alpeenist”, and friends had made an ascent from the Palm Springs tram a couple weeks before. They planned to camp on the summit and return via the tram. He had left his friends cooking dinner near the San Jacinto summit hut to admire the sunset from the their high perch. While he stood there gazing out at the last rays of light the summit cornice broke free under him setting off an avalanche which carried him away! He rode the crest of the slide for over 7000 feet and when it stopped he was on top and alive! With no injuries other than ripped lederhosen (a greasy old pair that he always wore) he made his way to safety.
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Reilly
Mountain climber
The Other Monrovia- CA
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May 30, 2015 - 07:02pm PT
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Holy cow, Dee! Well told and, as always, it is much better being lucky than well prepared. ;-)
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jstan
climber
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May 30, 2015 - 08:20pm PT
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It felt like I just broke up with a girlfriend
Classic!
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dee ee
Mountain climber
Of THIS World (Planet Earth)
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May 30, 2015 - 08:28pm PT
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Thanks Reilly, I've got more, all nonfiction.
The Screaming Woman
It was December 1986 and Tom Michael and I had been up to the Hidden Dome to climb the classic “Too Secret To Find,” on the Hidden Dome. We ended up there late in the day but saw several other good crack routes to do on the formation. The formation had many cool splitters on beautiful varnish. I vowed to return soon.
Jim Angione, Boogs , Herb Laeger and I returned two weeks later. It was warm, breezy and clear, a perfect day to be climbing in the shade. I lead the one that looked best to me first and it was super fun, a sweet splitter on good varnish. Everyone else followed in turn and we were loving it. We were basking in the solitude and were sure no one else was around for miles, at least it felt that way.
Suddenly we heard screaming in the distance. It wasn’t just screaming, it was blood curdling screams of horror. At first we didn’t know what to think. Was it real, was it the wind, it sounded bad, really bad. We were horrified! “That sounds like a woman,” someone said. “No, that sounds like a woman being murdered!” some one else replied. The one thing for sure was that this person was not faking it. Some poor woman was being attacked or raped or something worse. “What should we do?” The thought of confronting a murder in progress had us all frozen in terror for a few moments. “For Gods sake we have to do something,” someone uttered.
As one we rose up, adrenaline pumping, throwing down climbing gear, food and water. “Let’s Go!” We rushed off down the talus towards the desert floor to the west. Running, jumping from boulder to boulder in our haste, in a few minutes we were on the flats. The screaming had subsided for a moment while we regrouped. And then it started up again, and we were able to get a fix on where it was coming from. It was coming from the other side of a small formation nearby. It was just as horror filled as before only closer, much closer. As a group we sprinted towards the north end of the rock pile and around the corner to the west facing side. We were ready for combat with the most horrible criminals imaginable.
We came around the corner and saw a large group of people. My first thought was that we were greatly outnumbered. It took a few moments to sink in that they were climbers and that the screaming was coming from a woman on a toprope half way up the small cliff. It was an Outward Bound group and the woman was pleading to be let down. The “Leaders” were deaf to her. She had to complete the ascent. It was something worse than murder or rape, she was being forced to confront her fears which apparently were very real!
Oh my God were we relieved! We didn’t even talk to them, we just slipped sheepishly back around the corner with our tails between our legs numb from the adrenaline before any of them even saw us.
We returned to the Hidden Dome and did the FA of “Balance Due” (it’s working name on that day was “Too Stupid To Find!”). The other route could only be called “The Screaming Woman!”
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bob
climber
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May 30, 2015 - 08:59pm PT
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Mih Ne Ah a small bigwall for some, a large free climb for others:
What James was referring to was that Jake and I did Min-Ne-Ah. Just to the right of Yosemite Point Buttress. I had come out to Yos two years ago, out of shape and in need of a gun like Jake. He took the bait. As we were up on YPB we spied MNA, which from our vantage point looked beautiful and full of good cracks.
We pushed up YPB (my Dutch Lager busted in my camelback only after all the wide sh#t.!!) thinking about MNA. I talked Jake into doing it.
We took off super early and headed up the trail behind the stables, eventually reaching the Yosemite Point Couliar. We rapped into it, noticing that we could have scrambled out into it earlier. The mood instantly changed in the couliar.(sp?) It was cold and dark. It smelled different. It smelled like a cave. I stayed positive because, after all, Jake was going to get us up the thing.......right? He required a calming period. During which time I checked out the route as best I could. The first pitch was stellar looking!!!!! Fingers and hands. Cookie cliff good. Couldn't quite see the rest of the route, but I was positive.
Jake pepped up and won the flip for first lead.
Off he went shaking out his fear until realizing the climbing was awesome. He was happy again and ready for action. This climb is going to be splitter!!!!! Alright, my plan of getting a guide if necessary on Min-Ne-Ah was panning out. Jeez, at that point, with the approach I felt as though I had already done something substantial and the idea of a rope gun was more and more appealing.
I set off and did some jangy traverse right into grainy wideness that would end up characterizing the majority of the climb. Ropes end reached I set up a belay. Jake followed nicely and showed up realizing I may be off route. A small down traverse and he was back into the same grainy wideness, for a long way. I set off on even more wideness on the next pitch as well, but it soon turned into a memorable roofish move to 5.10 pumpfest. All hands to the anchor. I arrived torched. My lack of climbing for 6 months was catching up to me. Jake was only getting more into the groove and floating his way up.
Jake led us up another wideness pitch and I then led us up a moderate, wide pitch to the tops of the Rabbit Ears. Great hang, especially on a beautiful spring day as we had. The couliar curving down below. Lots of grainy and physical climbing to that point. Mostly wide and grainy. Going at Cosgrove/Shipley 5.8 or 9.
Looking up we saw simply ominous looking climbing. That giant roof at the top?! What on earth were we going to have to do to get through?
I set off on the first 11a pitch. I stemmed my way up grain past sh#t bolt to a good bolt to more SUPER SH#T BOLTS that appeared to be out of the rock by 1/4 or more of and inch out of the rock. They appeared to be origional aid bolts. Quite possibly placed well with erosion taking its toll around them. Well, they held my weight nontheless. I had had enough mentally at that point. A bulbousy lyback that was grainy as hell with those bolts defeated me. Reacehed the anchor above and humbly set my partial hanging belay below and extremely overhanging crack.
Jake fired up to me. Racked up and set forth on what has to be one of the best onsights I've witnessed and I've seen a few good ones.
To this point Jake was flawless. He made everything smooth. Even climbing that wasn't supposed to be so!!! This was different. White super grainy rock overhanging desperatly like a wave. he set forth and to our luck found good gear in the back of this absolute GRAINWAVE. He was showering me with so much rock I could have used that amount to gravel the average driveway. I could barely keep my eyes open enough to see him, but I had to. This performance was not to be missed. I had grain in my eyes for days.
Jakes dilemma was that he was at a spot that was quite hard. Very hard and stenuous. Cos/SHip 5.11D, grainy and full of mud and salad fixings. All the reason to call it and aid. Problem was the gear was as good as it gets, no matter what pitch you compare it to. It was solid in the back of that rattly offset think fingers thin hands crack.
He had no excuse. He had to go for it. Oh of which he did baby! The top of the crack is like a gaping v-slot. From my vantage point it looked as though it was over by then. Jake made noises i've never heard getting to that slot and once he started pullling into it I was full of joy and ease thinking he just sent the improbable. I threw words of encouragement and praise only to be interrupted with a shakey, yet very stearn, "Watch me BOB!!!!!!!!" I almost pissed myself.
He grunted through to the sloping ledge. I praised him. Laughing he said,"that's a pitch that 5.13 climbers barely onsighted when putting it up so they had to call it 5.11D".
I followed hanging multiple times and being totally blown away at how hard it remained up at the v-slot. IT was absolutely desperate, wet, full of veg in the back and had no gear at that point.
Next pitch was the bolt ladder. I relenquished my post and let The Gun take over. He walked up this 11c pitch littered with those bolts I spoke of before. It looked like 5.6. No kidding. He only paused long enough, half way to re-tie his shoe! But then he reached the slightly overhangingish wet, slimy ass crack ramp/squeeze thingy. He let out words of horror as he stood 40 feet above the last bolt, digging out moss, and rotten rock so he could get situated and not take a roaring ride of a tumbler. I remember feeling so fortunate not to be on lead at that point.
He got in the #6 and shimmed his way forth. I was probably sweating more than he.
Bobby J. was big walling at this point, supporting a mega free send by a buddie. Hand over hand and I was at the maw of a squeeze thingy. It was hard, wet and scary on TR.
Next I was off on some more wide, grainey sh#t that put me lying back a pinnacle of rock (or fin might be better) that "was breathing" as I yarded up it. Increased grain on the route at this point. Folks, this is saying a lot since the route was already bonified GRAINEY. We were in that really white rock. that would just fall apart.
Next Jake took off and a face traverse that was hard up to some more hard crack shtuff.
I was off after that up some wide sh#t, then cut it short because I just couldn't see what to do. I was done. My mind was just hanging on.
Has anyone here looked up right of YPB and seen the HUGE roof up high and right? There is a giant fin like feature that sticks out on the right end of it. Maybe this doesn't make sense. I had to try because the feature is SO COOL.
At the top of it all. Only two pitches left. Jake stepped left bridging this gap that is visible from the valley. Its very easy to see. What an ending. We could see the light and this move was exhilarating to say the least. We are tall and had very lttle trouble bridging the gap once our minds allowed us the privilage. Then.......yup, more wide ass grainy sh#t that was supposed to be 5.6, but was three letter grades harder. Last pitch was still wide grainy sh#t.
I forget how many pitches the climb was for us, but a lot I know for sure. We happily used a #6 Friend on all, but 1 pitch. I mean we were STOKED to have it. Very very much so.
An unbelieveable adventure this was. For both of us. Jake made it up without ever falling. We never had a lick of beta except looking over from YPB. We never talked to Coz and Ship is on another adventure. We couldn't find anyone who'd done it. It was truly impressive. I would never have been up there without that Mr. Whittaker.
Great job Cozgove/Shipley. Did you have any wide gear up there? Whoa! I would love to hear the story of that day sometime if you're ever up for it Scott.
Cheers to great adventures. Regardless of grain.
Bob j.
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guido
Trad climber
Santa Cruz/New Zealand/South Pacific
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May 31, 2015 - 08:53am PT
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Dam Bobby J. that was an awesome write up, I kept looking for the "like" button but realized this was ST and not Facebook.
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Reilly
Mountain climber
The Other Monrovia- CA
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May 31, 2015 - 09:09am PT
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Yeah, Bobbo, you had Guido at "All hands to the anchor." You had me the whole way.
But after doing the YPB what the hell possessed you to go for more grain?
Next time I see Jake's Uncle Lou I'll tell him what a stud his nephew is.
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o-man
Social climber
Paia,Maui,HI
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A faint but distinct buzzer goes off, I look at my watch it’s 4:00am
I do not want to get up, but I force myself.
It is so dark and very cold (on the north rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison) at this hour.
I light the stove.
The water is already in the pot and ready to boil.
I shake Buc “he’s my longtime friend and partner on this adventure”, gesturing that he be very quiet.
The water begins to boil. In a few seconds strong coffee is ready.
The cob webs clear after two sips of the strong stimulating beverage.
I pour Buc a cup and hand it to him while he is still in his sleeping bag. He is grateful not to have to move, just yet.
There are no human sounds in the small camp ground at this hour.
We power down as many calories as possible, with extra on the liquids.
We have been hyper/hydrating for the last 48 hours and I feel bloated.
I hope that I am hydrated enough for the grueling task ahead.
I sneak over to the outhouse and. my time table is off.
“Oh well, I tried”.
(It’s still very dark)
When I get back to camp Buc is up,
He’s dressed, ready to go.
I’m already dressed also. I even have my climbing shoes on!
Having packed everything necessary for today’s task last night, all there is to do is grab my half of the rack and a rope, and hit the trail.
We are the first out of camp. We have no one in front of us and have our pick of any route on North Chasm View Wall.
A brief flat stroll through the forest brings us to the Cruise Gully.
We start the long decent from the rim of the canyon to the Gunnison River almost 2000 feet below.
At first the going is easy scrambling, but it got steeper by the minute.
When we got to the start of the granite cliff, the rappel anchors were already in place. All we have to do is thread our ropes through them and go.
With doubled 165’ ropes we made really fast time.
We are being very careful not to do anything that would dislodge any loose rocks or cause the ropes to jam while we are pulling them behind us. One repel and then another and yet another go without any problem. At this point we have only a bit more roped descending to do and it is back to steep down climbing and scrambling with no need for the protection of a rope.
In the far distance we here the muffled sounds of voices and the clanking of gear.
We have a good head start and with that we should have no trouble staying way ahead of whoever they are. We have no idea if they even intend to do the same route that we have chosen but we aren’t taking any chances.
By now it is full day light although Route we have chosen is still in the shade and will be pleasantly cool for some time.
A few more minutes of steep hiking and we are at the base of our climb “The Cruz”.
“The Cruise” is a 1500’ 5.10+ free climb. It’s very steep and strenuous with exceptionally solid rock. (For “The Black” that is!)
Buc and I are in good climbing shape and the route is technically well within our abilities. We flip for who leads the first pitch. This will set the sequence for the rest of the climb since we will be leap forging pitches all the way up unless one of us gets freaked out (after all, “It’s always desperate in the Black!”)
I win the toss and charge up the first pitch. It’s moderate and goes smooth and swift.
The second and third pitches are off width and squeeze chimney, they’re strenuous but reasonable and really fun if you like off width climbing.
Pitch four is Buc’s and I can tell that he would rather I had drown it since it’s a thin finger crack in a dihedral and also one of the two crux pitches of the climb.
I take a moment to restack the rope and make my stance as comfortable as possible. Buc arranges the rack so that the smaller wired pieces are close at hand and can be accessed with a minimal amount of effort. I give him the nod that tells him that I am ready to belay. He reciprocates with the same gesture and makes the first moves off the belay stance. It’s hard right away and he is placing gear at every opportunity. I think that if he keeps this up he will be running out of the smaller sizes before he gets to the belay stance more than 130’ further. At one point he gets an especially good stopper in and asks me to tighten up the rope. It’s his lead and I do what he asks. He takes tension, not for a rest, but lowers down and cleans out the gear from below. Think that he has made a good decision and am comforted to know that he will have more of a selection when it gets harder further up the pitch. Placing small wired wedges for protection and using mostly thin finger jambs while stemming on the tiniest of edges on both side of the corner he makes slow but steady progress. All I can hear from him is heavy breathing and the occasional requests for slack and tension. I try to be encouraging knowing that at times he is at his wits end in desperation. At one point he commits to a sequence that he can’t reverse and slips. It really wasn’t a very long fall but still it was a fall. At the end of every fall there is a rest. He takes a moment to regroup and then with rejuvenated stoke he cruses the rest of the pitch without hesitation. Moments later I hear, “Off Belay”.
I had exhausted every possible position at the stance that I have been anchored to for an hour. My feet hurt and my legs were cramped. I was looking forward to moving again.
Seconding this pitch is way easier with a snug rope from above. The moves although thin were actually easy when the fear of falling was taken out of the equation.
The belay stance at the end of the 4th pitch was relatively comfortable and spacious although a bit sloping. This point also happens to be where “The Cruz” and its sister route “The Scenic Cruz” joins and follows the same line for the rest of the wall.
I thought that the last pitch had taken longer than it should have. I was rested and anxious to get underway.
The 5th pitch was nothing like the 4th and required totally different climbing styles and gear selection.
This pitch starts off through over hanging lodged boulders that are so precariously placed it seems as though the pressure of the various jamb locks could dislodge them.
I moved as quickly as possible through this section placing a minimum of gear although I did get a few pieces.
The exposure was wearing on me, as this pitch got steeper and more strenuous with every move.
It involved steep hand and fist jamming with sections of two or three sequential moves between gear placements.
I must admit that when I did get a piece of gear in, it was bomber.
I was starting to get really griped and pumped out of my mind when I powered through the crux roof and made a last desperate reach for what looked like a good hand jamb and it was just what I hoped.
I can’t say enough about this jamb. It gave me a boost of confidence that allowed me to rally.
In many of cases where there are good jambs there are good gear placements this was no exception. At this point, although everything was still extremely steep, I had some good gear in place and had a reasonably comfortable stance. I could put allot of weight on my feet and I was able to turn loose with one hand and shake it out and then the other. It felt good and secure to shake out but I really wasn’t resting.
I knew that I was really only a little over half way up this pitch. If I hadn’t been so pumped I think that this section would have been quite enjoyable.
The way that I had franticly placed the gear on that last desperate crux section was causing rope drag. The extra tension was wearing me down drastically. It was turning a technically moderate hand and fist crack, into a night mare.
It was like I was hauling a bag of cement up the climb with me.
I knew that I had to do something about it and that was going to eat into all the time that I had made up.
I placed a really good piece and took tension I started to lower myself back down the pitch.
This really confused Buc. He hadn’t been able to see or hear me since I turned the roof.
It really wasn’t that far, but it was so steep that it took my breath away.
I lowered myself over the roof and pulled the gear that was causing the drag and it was like night and day.
Buc could see me as soon as I lowered over the roof and fully understood what I was doing.
Now I had the task of reclimbing that strenuous roof again but this time I had a top rope.
I got back to my high point in no time and with newly found energy motored the rest of the pitch.
Buc had very little difficulty seconding the pitch. He did have some trouble getting one of the pieces that I over placed in a desperate moment. Otherwise he fluidly powered through the whole thing and was at the belay stance in no time.
We both felt some relief that the two crux pitches were behind us but we had a long way to go and the last two pitches had eaten up allot of time.
The cool shade of the morning was a thing of the past and the sun was out in full force. It was driving its intense rays deep into the white pegmatite quartz and radiating through the granite, while burning and swelling our feet in shoes that were too tight in the first place.
The next two pitches were without a doubt “world class” text book hand and fist jamming. The sort of cracks climbers dream of and seek out their whole climbing careers.
We savored these two pitches of moderate though sustained movement. After the difficult terrain we had been through previously these pitches were a vertical walk in the park.
Once again we made fast time and our enthusiasm returned. We were at a point where the exposure wasn’t affecting us as it was several pitches back although, believe me, it was still there.
At the ledge at the end of the two luxurious crack pitches we took a short break to take our shoes off and eat a little and try to hydrate some. We were over 1000’ from where we stepped on to this rock. We were tired and ready for it to be over and if we kept up the pace it soon would be.
At this point Buc was getting tired. I could see it in his eyes and his slow movements. I asked him respectfully, if he would let me lead the pitches for the rest of the climb. That would allow each of us to rest as much as possible between physical exertions. He looked up at the sun and then at me and said “be my guest” knowing that the rest of the climb was going to be a cruise for him.
I put the rack together as fast as I could and started out what is known as the “Becker Traverse”.
I move out the traverse edging on thin holds to the first bolt and place a wired stopper over it and clip in to it. The bolt looks as if it would hold body weight but I sure did not want to test it. Climbing on more thin holds at a fairly stiff technical difficulty I came to the second bolt and it looked better but I still had to thread a wire over it. Luckily, I found a few small stopper placements that helped offset the utterly pathetic excuses for protection. I moved a few more feet to the left and found the third it was almost completely out of the rock but I threaded it anyway. At this point I started to climb straight up and I fortunately found some small but good nut placements that protected the rest of the way to the belay ledge.
The belay ledge was a fairly comfortable place and I had some excellent cams in.
Buc moved through the traverse cautiously. It was equally as scary for him as it was for me.
Once again, we switch the Belay. I rearrange the rack and then place a piece as high in the crack as I could reach. I clip in and off I go. What appeared to be a few easy and straight forward hand jambs turned out to be much harder than I anticipated and I nearly fell off!
With my adrenalin way up after those few desperate moves, I climb moderate rock to a small, and very exposed belay ledge at the base of a gnarly, loose, and basically grim looking face. Vertically, we were 150’ below the rim of the canyon. I clip into the fixed anchors and put in as many extra pieces as I could find.
I realize as I belay Buc up to the tiny ledge, that we are very close to the top, but the climb isn’t over.
At this point we are both fatigued and dehydrated and our judgment is somewhat slowed or impaired.
For the last time, I organize the rack the rack while Buc restacks the rope and puts me on belay. I climb straight up off the belay ledge to the bottom of a giant insurmountable roof.
I’m forced to traverse right on small but surprisingly solid holds. I was pleased to find the rock on this pitch also accepts a variety of different gear.
I was placing protection sparingly for fear of rope drag. In fact I was running it out way past the point of safety. I was getting enough decent placement opportunities that I was confident that there will be more. I actually enjoyed the free form sequences of the moderate moves on this pitch.
Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that the angle of the rock had lessened by a few degrees
I become so engrossed with the moves that I was making on this section that I wasn’t aware of the fact that I was more than 50’ out from my last protection placement. If I were to fall from this point it would mean a fall excess of 100’. Buc could have never caught a fall that long, nor would the anchors in the belay have held.
I immediately, I put in two really good cam devices.
I was safe again!
I jammed up the short but very steep final crack section.
This had been an exceptionally long pitch. I was out of rope, and despite the long run outs with no gear placements, I was just about out of equipment to build a solid belay.
It took some time and ingenuity but I finally put something together that was sound enough to hold a fall.
I yelled that I was on belay and Buc was at my side in hardly any time at all.
I told him to just keep climbing past me and belay me from the guard rail at the scenic overlook on the rim of the canyon.
The climbing wasn’t much more difficult than walking but in our exhausted state I felt that we should use the rope until we had actually reached the top of the canyon wall.
I heard the words “off belay” and I pulled the gear that I had placed and scrambled up to the top.
It was almost comical to be actually climbing over the tubular guard rails at one of the scenic over looks. There was a group of tourists at this airy spot. One of them asked Buc where he came from. Buc pointed and said, “Down there”.
After sixteen pitches of sustained climbing few things feel better than sitting down and taking my climbing shoes off.
We limped (barefoot) through the high desert forest back to our camp.
With our arms loaded with uncoiled ropes and the gear hanging on us in a total mess.
The smart thing to do at this point was to consume as much water as we could but that wasn’t what we had on our minds.
We wanted a beer and then we wanted more beer!
The cooler was well stocked with crushed ice and our favorite beverage.
We downed the first one while we cut the tape off of our bruised and swelling hands. My feet were still hurting!
We actually made fast time on the route and there was a fair amount of day light left.
We took a slow stroll back to the scenic overlook where we topped out.
We lounged at the very edge of The Black Canyon with a beer in our hands and our bare feet dangling over the abyss
I reveled in the act of not climbing!
I was at peace, without any since of urgency!
Evening is wondrous on the north rim of The Black Canyon!
As the angle of light crosses the narrow gorge it accents features that are totally invisible throughout the day.
Every species of the local wildlife come out of their deep shaded shelters and roam about the rim of the canyon.
It’s a unique and diverse social hour devoted to worshiping the coolness before dark.
The birds sing in (seemingly) rehearsed harmonious chorale, as cricket and locust provide rhythmic background.
The scent of sage and juniper is an almost visible fragrance.
Cactus radiate with vibrant red and yellow blossoms and briefly, their menacing thorns, disappear.
Strange people appear out of nowhere to share the experience of this breath taking extravaganza of sensory abundance!
We stare in awe of the magnificence of” The Painted Wall” with its white pegmatite dragon dancing across its expanse.
We could see the tourists on the south rim watching us as we in turn watch them.
The distance across the canyon at this point seems less than the depth.
We silently reflect on the events of the day. Most of the thoughts were in a jumbled mess only to be sorted out at a later time.
We are humbled by the power in this canyon and honored that we were allowed safe passage.
As the evening turns to night, the warmth that we were enjoying fades.
I revel in the cold and welcome its chilling bite. I know that after I have absorbed as much cold as I can stand, that there is hot food and a warm goose down sleeping bag waiting.
We become acutely aware that had any one thing gone wrong, we could still be on the wall facing a bitter cold night without food, water, or warm clothing.
We tremble at the thought of one us getting even slightly injured! Those thoughts are too harrowing and are dismissed immediately.
We left our camp in the warmth of the afternoon with only a cooler full of beer wearing only tee-shirts, shorts and barefoot.
No flash light and the absence of even a hint of moon light made the short journey back to our camp seem more perilous than any of the pitches we had climbed earlier that day. Those beautiful flowers of the Choia Cactus were now villains waiting to attack!
We moved at a snail’s pace and all we could think of was our overpowering exhaustion.
The seemingly interminable journey down the pitch black trail finally ended.
I hadn’t eaten so much as a morsel in longer than I could remember but in this emaciated state, sleep was my only desire.
I slept soundly until I was awakened by the aroma of fresh brewed coffee.
I had an unquenchable thirst, and a ravenous appetite!
Buc was preparing a full blown breakfast and it would be ready shortly.
The acids in the ice cold orange juice felt magical as it flowed down my raw throat.
While waiting for the call to breakfast I enjoyed the stimulating effects of the high powered French Roast while basking in the soft and warm streams of sun light filtering through the canopy of Juniper.
A very satisfying breakfast worked wonders!
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dee ee
Mountain climber
Of THIS World (Planet Earth)
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MONKEY ON MY BACK
By David Evans
Randy, Craig and I gazed up at the dark foreboding east face of the North Astro Dome as Randy pointed out the line. I could see his line but there was one important thing missing, stances to drill the protection bolts from. If only it wasn’t dead vertical we might have a chance but, it was vert from bottom to top and not a ledge in sight. I expressed my doubts but Randy reiterated his lecture of the hike out, the point of which was that ” it would go” and that there would be no aid used.
It was April 1978 and the climbing world was engaged in a passionate ethical debate. The insidious Euro practices of “hang-dogging” and “rap bolting” were creeping into the American climbing scene and we weren’t having any of it. Climbing was about style not numbers and we Cali climbers were diehard purists. Our magnum opus would not be tainted by aid.
Randy was adamant and insisted that if either one of us used aid he would literally pull us off the climb, leader fall or not. He was a year older, more worldly and we believed he meant every word.
Craig was first to lead and after some struggle had the third bolt in. Spencer, Craig and Randy had started the route a week or two before and placed the first two bolts on that day.
I was up next and started climbing with a trickle charge of adrenaline boosting my pulse rate. The rock was perfect brown and red varnish with small positive edges. The moves were 5.10- with the hardest passing the second bolt (that Spencer had drilled) at mid 5.10. I got a couple moves above Craig’s bolt and prepared to drill. The only problem was I couldn’t let go to hold the drill! Craig hollered up that the trick was to hold the drill next to the edge that my left hand was on so that I could hold both the edge and the drill at the same time. I felt like I was going to fall over backwards. Starting the hole was a struggle but once the hole was ¼” deep or so I could hold myself in with the drill alone. After some effort I got it in and repeated the whole scene again 10 feet higher. I was gassed and lowered off.
Then it was Randy’s turn. Climbing smoothly he made his way up past my high point occasionally making comments about the beauty of the rock or the quality of the moves. We were all in agreement; this route was of the highest quality, 5 stars on a 5 star scale. Randy got another bolt in and started traversing right as he could see a good flake 20 feet or so away that might offer a stopper or hex placement. The traverse was easy but the flake was crap for pro, he couldn’t get anything good in and it was too steep to drill. We could all see a good stance another 12 or 15 feet to the right and Randy decided to head out that way. We begged him to try again for pro at the flake because the runout to the stance was horrendous. His reply was, “there is no pro, I’m going for it.”
The traverse immediately got more difficult and looked harder still further on. Randy carefully worked his way out from the flake and soon was 8 or 10 feet away where he stalled out. He was only a few feet from the stance but the last move was the crux. The phrase “watch me” was repeated many times. A couple more inches and then his foot slipped. The fall would be huge. With the slack and stretch in the rope he was looking at a 60 to 80 footer. Craig was hip belaying and was ready to both yard in the rope and run backwards to catch the fall. I was pacing and my hands were sweating uncontrollably.
Somehow he held on and desperately scrabbled back a few feet. Randy muttered to himself and us, “I was so close, if I could just…..” He launched again. He must have wanted it bad. Once again the scene was repeated including the slip, we were starting to freak out. I yelled up “Randy you HAVE to get some pro!” He looked at it again and returned to the flake to rest. We relaxed for a few minutes while Randy rested but suddenly the sound of the tap, tap, tap of drilling drifted down. Craig and I looked at each other in surprise and then up at Randy. Sure enough he was drilling with BOTH hands free. “What’s going on up there,” we yelled? The reply,” I’m on a hook!”
A hook, what the hell, that’s aid! Where did that come from,” we asked? Randy’s answer regarding the hooks origin was vague at best but suddenly the humor of the situation dawned on us. Randy was using aid and we had to pull him off!
We agreed to warn him first, “We are going to pull you off,” we yelled. The reply was an emphatic “noooooo, don’t do it!” Craig readied himself, “OK Randy, here goes.” “Noooo!!!!,” again. Well, in the end we didn’t pull him off. How could you pull one of your best friends off even if he had been so pompous? We couldn’t do it.
Randy banged in two bolts at the flake and called it a belay. He explained that since it was a belay and that a hanging belay is aid anyway it was OK. It was an interesting rationale and not entirely without merit.
That was as far as we got that day. Randy lowered off, we packed it up and headed home. The hike out was animated by an even more spirited ethical debate and much heckling of the guilty party.
It was the end of that Josh season and the route sat undone until November when Randy and I returned without Craig or Spencer. I’m not sure what priorities they had that prevented them from being there. After all, what could be more important than finishing this stellar line?
I led the first pitch to the hanging belay. The quality of the climbing was only surpassed by the spectacular position of the line. Each section was 5.10-, the varnish was beautiful, the pitch was perfect. Watching Randy climb to the stance I was kicking myself for not bringing the camera.
Randy took the sharp end and made the traverse to the good stance without any trouble. Soon he had a bolt in and continued to the big ledge one pitch from the top placing two more bolts along the way. After awhile an “off belay” drifted down. I followed the traverse and found the last move hard. It felt about 10c to me on a toprope. It would have been insanity to run out the whole traverse. The rest of the pitch had more 10- moves. He brought me up and I cruised the final steep but easy 5.8 crack to the summit.
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thebravecowboy
climber
The Good Places
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Feb 13, 2017 - 06:52pm PT
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bump for the deleted jefe post.
bump for telling time by the natural evolution of a favored and private and repeated camp place.
bump for the reason we go to work.
bump for the realness, that fear-stink and the endorphins to make it all seem like a good idea once more
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