I was 16 years old and waaaaaay into acid. We were hanging out in Hueco Tanks in 1984 or 85. It seemed like a great idea to dose and solo "All the Nasties" 10 a/b and watch the sunset. It was the quickest way to the top. The acid kicked in early on the 2nd pitch and I sat on a 1' by 3' ledge tripping my balls off 100' from the top of the route. ALL NIGHT LONG. I held 2 fingers through the belay bolts for most of the night. Dammit!
Gee...there have been a few pretty stupid things that I've done. Climbing in Lost City on acid may have been pretty stupid, although it didn't seem so at the time. Then there was dragging a full keg of beer up to the High exposure ledge in 1983(?). Having really no idea how to haul such a load, we spent 4 hours and only got it up halfway before we realized we'd never make it before sundown. So, we lowered it back to the foot of the climb and ended up getting completely tanked. Of course, none of us had headlamps so we ended up slithering, belly down, feet-first, back to the carriage road. I really can't remember much past that.
I'm too lazy to type it all again, so I am copy and pasteing it from an earlier thread of Jul 08.
Not the dumbest, but pretty amusing and dumb to boot. The thread was about backup knot use. It may help to visualize Willie Coyote.
Yes, I have. Scared the crap outa me but I'm still here to tell the tale. Never have and wouldn't consider not using one. Fallen quite a few times solo, mostly free climbing.
It was the manzanita choked approach ledge of Liberty Cap last May, and anchored my rope off on the more exposed part and the docking tether of the haulbag to my belay loop so I had enough slack to toss the pig over and under the many obstacles. Nearing the 3/4 section of my rope, I had to toss the pig uphill on some loose sandy stuff, and scoot it around until it would stand on it's own, and then try to climb my sweaty fat butt up to it. In the process I stood up and slid down a little and pulled the top of the very overstuffed pig towards me and it yanked my dumb a$$ off faster than I could have imagined. Soloists do not catch head first falls so I went to the backup, which was nearing the end of a 60 meter rope. Went about 50 foot with the stretch and all the give in the slung manzanita I had used for pro.
Scared the crap out of me, but relatively unhurt. Hanging by the backup knot, with the over 100 lb. pig pulling on the belay loop, I was just not having a good time. Had to pull the chest cord off the soloist and prussic the pig up enough to get it off the locker and let her go to the deck. about 250 to 300 feet I suppose. All the basics I needed were in the bag, ascenders, more slings and biners,ladders etc..
Climbed the rope back up to the ledge and got really pissed and scared that I was getting in over my head for a first solo wall, went and gathered my crap, tucked my tail, and went back down to the valley, pretty whipped.
Still love to solo. Still think the way I do it is the right way. I would never hesitate, thinking that the system will not do a good job of keeping me on the cord. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Sometime in the early '80's, after I had successfully exiled myself from the Valley, and was working as a carpenter on Bay Area concrete tilt-up jobs, I felt a great need to escape the big city crush. My muse assigned me a vision of a solo ascent of Mt Shasta, complete with a nordic ski descent from Lake Helen. I believe it was spring, because there was a nice deep base of snow on the mountain.
I had a week off work, and on monday I spent the day driving up through central California, arriving in the afternoon at the Bunny Flat trailhead for the Avalanche Gulch route. About 7,000 ft altitude.
Next morning I set out with some rather old-school gear and a comforting sense of delusion. I knew I was in good fitness -well, skeletal-muscular at least -not sure about the lingering effects of San Jose bar-hopping and Camel straights, but upon reflection, I have little doubt that it somehow contributed to a hypoxic-induced lack of good judgment. I felt at home in the wilds, but perhaps my confidence and escapist joy allowed me to downplay certain acclimatization issues from living for months at sea level.
I went up the main ridge which is the south edge of the whole Avalanche Gulch bowl. A pair of three-pin Fischer metal-edged 215s strapped to my pack, plus an ice axe, I used my pair of cane ski touring poles. Always thought old-style wood poles were cool.
On the way up, the weather was partly sunny, and the snow was a fresh deep layer which hadn't yet melted or iced up. The snow base was deep enough in the bowl to cover all the rocks. Beautiful. Looking down into the bowl as I climbed the ridge, I fairly drooled at the sight of my anticipated descent of a couple thousand feet of moderate and easy terrain. It was past noon when I arrived somewhere near the base of the Red Banks.
Somehow, I had apparently decided not to summit that day, but to do the skiing first. I had gotten greedy and become lured to the steeper slopes above 10,000 ft Helen Lake for a super-long descent. But I was oblivious to the consequences.
This was it. Time for skiing bigtime. There was still some intermittent sun, and I had hoped to catch my run when the snow would be warmest -to help with any unwanted crust I might encounter. So finally, there I was on my boards, ice axe strapped to the back of a nearly empty daypack, traversing out from some rocks, into the center of a couloir -maybe 300 ft wide. Somehow in my high-altitude glee, I had failed to notice an important detail or two. I was now somewhere over 12,000 ft. And I hadn't registered the steepness or the condition of my departure point. After traversing about 50 feet out, it dawned on me that the center of the broad chute was an icy consolidated snow surface. I could almost touch the uphill side by just reaching out my right arm. Way too steep for me, especially with the ice.
Ok, I thought, just a careful kick turn here and traverse back. I examined the contact of my edges. Each ski was contacting the snow on a just a few inches of edge. I was barely on. I knew I couldn't guarantee reversing my track without slipping off. Looking downhill to my left, I acknowledged my spectacular demise. Ice axe couldn't be reached without unsafe shenanigans. I decided to continue traversing to the other side of the bowl, where I could see better chance of re-rigging my situation.
It was going okay until I reached the very middle of the couloir. My edge contacts dwindled to nothing on a bad icy section, and I slipped off for a good 1,000 ft of ride. At least there were no rock formations in my path. It was zero to 50 in 5 seconds. Instantly I self-arrested with my bamboo ski pole. It snapped off uselessly. My next instinct was to keep from going into a tumble. I spread out my arms and legs flat on the surface, while trying to keep my ridiculously long non-release skinny skis from catching and either ripping my legs off, or slicing up my head with the tips. I couldn't control anything else. Sometimes I would rotate so my head was downhill. Even though my path was basically a smooth incline, my speed caused the exaggeration of little bumps, and I was flipped into the air a few times to land on my stomach or my back, but thankfully I still never began tumbling. My vision was a total incoherent blurr from all the rapid bouncing. It went on this way for what may have been 30 to 45 seconds, and included several sharp painful jolts to my back. Finally, as I approached lower altitude above Helen Lake, the snow became soft, and the angle laid back. I slowed and then came to an abrupt halt, on my back, head uphill, and my right ski tail jammed in up to the boot. The left ski was gone.
Lying there I figured I'd broken my back and was paralyzed, but I found that I could move very painfully. Here I was around 10,000 ft. It was afternoon, quiet, windless, and sunny. My truck was about 4 miles away, and it was Tuesday; the mountain was deserted. Well, I post-holed down in thigh-deep snow that was melting into mush; crawling sometimes to rest my back. Reached the truck by dusk, and could barely drive with the clutch pedal and column shift. Waited into the night to get x-rayed in Shasta town, to learn that I'd cracked my tailbone. Stupid ice axe... Stayed in the Mountain Aire Hotel that night to soak in their outdoor hot tub before next day's painful drive back home. Live and learn, if you survive.