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roninthorne
Jun 14, 2006, 8:30 PM
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Registered: Nov 27, 2002
Posts: 659
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Friday I welcomed my current Girl Friday home from her latest stint
of rebuilding the tiny town of Pearlington, on the Gulf coast of
Mississippi, one of the places devestated first by Katrina, then by
the criminal incompetence of Washington. Having taken two trips to the place myself, I knew she'd be in need of some serious kickin' it.
A cold bottle of ESB and a Ronin's Rational Brownies soon had all
the detritus of Washington bureaucracy and FEMA stupidity whittled into perspective and we whiled away the night as newly-reunited folks will... while visions of FAs danced in my subconscious.
Saturday it was sleep in and huge brekkie, then hugs and kisses and
the boy was off to the hills! Three hours' drive saw me safely in
the hinterlands of WV, and I caught up with my partner Doctor Doom
just as he was washing up lunch dishes at camp.
We sent a ceremonial smoke ring to join the thousands who have gone
before, shouldered our packs, and headed off towards the crags,
where my quest to send an overhanging 23-meter pumpfest of my own creation was in its fourth year. Long breaks and one serious hiatus had undermined my beta, but a couple of weeks of work had most of my bytemap coming through 5 by 5.
Mike, the good Doctor, rapped in whilst I scuttled around the long
way to the base, admiring the natural and sport lines we've done
here, pausing to reset the occasional disturbed edgestone on the trail we've built. By the time I reached the base, Mike had a TR rigged for the final V3+ moves on his latest nemesis, so I donned harness and put him on belay.
With a great deal of grunting and swearing and clasping at
impossible holds in impossible stances, my partner completely failed
to make a single move connect with any other for the better part of
half an hour, while the sun climbed higher and mosquitos vied with
greenhead flies for the more tender portions of my anatomy.
When at last he did consent to defeat, I thought the whole thing had
looked like such fun I was keen to try it on myself. So up I went,
setting a TR on my own little light o'love and bloodying both knees
and three knuckles in a matter of minutes, all while pumping my
forearms to the size of a dirigible.
We took a short break, then headed down the wall a ways to climb
something easier... something in a relaxed fit 5.9 R/X, in other
words. After that fun, and all the whimpering and soul searching
involved, Mike threw himself at Brother Love, the 5.11R/X nightmare
that some of you might recall me (finally) sending just before my
second trip to Colorado.
The route is a brute, with a long reach to a jug that then requires
you to cut your feet, swing out over horrible space with a single
bolt for pro, and stuff your leg into a crack (translated: flaring offwidth bombay slot) three feet over your head, wedging yourself in at a 45-degree-upside-down angle to clip the second bolt.... It goes on like this for quite a while...
Four tries at getting beyond the hellclip and second bolt finally
broke the good Doctor's resolve, and he backcleaned and downclimbed
the route, in and of itself a 5.10+R/X undertaking. I TR'd the proj
again, brushing all the holds for the next day's FA attempt.
We ate a HUGE dinner of spaghetti and meat sauce, salad and rolls
and dessert. If not for the wind in our faces and the birdsong in
our ears, it would have been hard to tell we were "roughing it". A
full moon soon rose to light our little camp, and after a few more
hours of blowing smoke and shooting craps, we toddled off to beddie-
bye.
Next morning we speed hiked to the base and I pulled the rope. Mike
launched into another shot at a project of his, a hideous 5.11 off-
the-ground-in-your-face line about five yards right of Mr.
Brownstone, my own destination for the day. Strong through the
first two bolts, he fell at the third, but rallied to work and
finally send the roof moves that had stopped him for the last three
weeks.
We celebrated and headed over to my personal testpiece. I tied
into my waiting rope, pulled on my shoes and headed up. Two bolts
past the first roof, I could feel that I was in trouble, missing
footholds and throwing wildly. I lowered and pulled the rope,
unwilling to fail further up for mistakes at the start. The final
fifteen-foot runout would require that everything be just right,
from base ro rest ledge, or the climb would not go.
Mike took another shot at his line, linking the new moves with old
beta before coming off two bolts above his previous best. When he
came down, I smiled, tied in again, and headed up my proj.
Crank up on slopers, reach right and pull around the corner, setting
your foot as you go to reach through and grab the hidden rail that
is the crossclip hold. Chalk and reset, crank into the thin holds
and place the high right foot, snap through to the good ledge and
match, swing the feet to small slopers and walk up to clip the
second bolt....
I moved through each sequence quickly but smoothly, skipping several
holds to more directly move up the line and save energy. I paused
only long enough to clip and take three breathes at each bolt,
chalking only when I reached the knee bar in the m iddle of the
long, overhanging lower wall.
I pulled onto the rest ledge two bolts from the top, below what is
really the power and technical crux.
Resting my head against the stone, I thought "This is only a tall boulder problem. You've climbed longer, harder lines than this last bit when you were in worse shape. Accept the holds, make the moves, and to hell with the fall... go for it!"
I monitored my heartbeat, distracting myself from the pumping burn of my forearms by counting, an old Navy SEALs trick. I assigned each move, hand and foot, a number, and counted them over and over until I set up a rhythm in my head.
"Climbing."
"Climb on, Mike... you got it!"
One- hand high in the jam slot. Two, foot high in the sloper pocket. Three, other hand comes up to jam in the blown-out hueco at
the corner of the arete, with twenty meters of overhanging cliff
swinging around below. Five,"French"- highstep into the face while
jamming and reach high to snag the good ledge. Six- clip. Seven,
move up lefthand to round knob while eight setting foot high on
nubbins and nine leaning off nothing to snag the good right crimper
that lets you ten reach out to a hold the size and shape of a
thimble glued to the face. Sidepull on this and rock up to eleven
another sidepull and twelve clip. Thirteen snap up right hand to
flat sloper while fourteen moving right foot up onto aforementioned
thimble and fifteen setting left foot on crimper edge. Sixteen;
contorted beyond all belief, snap a throw up around the micro
arete/roof overhead to snag a three finger crap edge known
affectionately as the Cobra and seventeen dance up one set of
footholds to the sloper flattie. Eighteen; now better than ten feet
off your last bolt, cross over above the roof to snag a first-pad-
only crimper, then release the Cobra with your right hand and snag
tghe better (but just barely) hold to the right. Nineteen, step out
onto the edge of the roof, twenty cross right hand back to a higher
hold, reset the left foot (twenty one) and THROW (twenty-two) to
snag the huge, positive edge below the final overhang, three feet
from the anchor.
Twenty-three, get your shit back together while shaking like a leaf
in the wind, pumped out of your mind and now at least fifteen feet
from your last bolt. Reach up to huge, textured incuts that could
still spill you right back down the cliff in the face of an
onrushing lactic acid tsunami.
My voice was shaking worse than my legs as I called "Slack!" and
clipped the anchors. A victory yell tore out of me as the rope
snapped home in the crab and I barely manged to clip the second
anchor before sagging back with tears in my eyes and a lump in my
throat.
Done. Thank you, Lord, for all the love and support of those around
me that has brought me so far. Thank you for my health, and for the
grace that has given me so much freedom to pursue this meaningless
obsession of mine.
And thank you for letting me top out, today, so I never have to be
this scared again...
At least not on this route, anyways....
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dingus
Jun 14, 2006, 9:41 PM
Post #2 of 8
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Registered: Dec 16, 2002
Posts: 17398
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Nice job on the send and the writing.
DMT
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j_ung
Jun 14, 2006, 10:29 PM
Post #3 of 8
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Registered: Nov 21, 2003
Posts: 18690
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In reply to: And thank you for letting me top out, today, so I never have to be this scared again...
Yeah, right...
In reply to: At least not on this route, anyways....
Oh, uh... yeah-right! :lol:
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leinosaur
Jun 15, 2006, 12:50 PM
Post #4 of 8
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Registered: Oct 6, 2003
Posts: 690
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In reply to: One- hand high in the jam slot. Two, foot high in the sloper pocket. Three, other hand comes up to jam in the blown-out hueco at the corner of the arete, with twenty meters of overhanging cliff swinging around below. Five,"French"- highstep into the face while jamming and reach high to snag the good ledge. Six- clip. Seven, move up lefthand to round knob while eight setting foot high on nubbins and nine leaning off nothing to snag the good right crimper that lets you ten reach out to a hold the size and shape of a thimble glued to the face. Sidepull on this and rock up to eleven another sidepull and twelve clip. Thirteen snap up right hand to flat sloper while fourteen moving right foot up onto aforementioned thimble and fifteen setting left foot on crimper edge. Sixteen; contorted beyond all belief, snap a throw up around the micro arete/roof overhead to snag a three finger crap edge known affectionately as the Cobra and seventeen dance up one set of footholds to the sloper flattie. Eighteen; now better than ten feet off your last bolt, cross over above the roof to snag a first-pad- only crimper, then release the Cobra with your right hand and snag tghe better (but just barely) hold to the right. Nineteen, step out onto the edge of the roof, twenty cross right hand back to a higher hold, reset the left foot (twenty one) and THROW (twenty-two) to snag the huge, positive edge below the final overhang, three feet from the anchor. Twenty-three, get your shit back together while shaking like a leaf in the wind, pumped out of your mind and now at least fifteen feet from your last bolt. Reach up to huge, textured incuts that could still spill you right back down the cliff in the face of an onrushing lactic acid tsunami.
SOMEBODY's got a kinesthetic memory!
Thanks for taking us along on a wild ride . . . now I'm twice as stoked for this weekend. Props on the send too.
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bivyledge
Jun 15, 2006, 2:12 PM
Post #5 of 8
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Registered: May 8, 2006
Posts: 16
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A beautiful piece of writing. I am inspired to both train harder and write more. Nice job.
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microbarn
Jun 15, 2006, 2:40 PM
Post #6 of 8
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Registered: May 12, 2004
Posts: 5920
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Thank you for sharing. That was great!
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billcoe_
Jun 15, 2006, 2:43 PM
Post #7 of 8
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Registered: Jun 30, 2002
Posts: 4694
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In reply to: A beautiful piece of writing. I am inspired to both train harder and write more. Nice job.
Me too, how the hell can you remember all that stuff. Hell, Ifeel fortunate if I can remeber the name of the damn climb and I'm always grabbing the wrong pro on routes I've done multiple times.
Last Sat for intance, I grabbed 5 nuts (which I thought would fit based on memory and I ws staring right at the crack) for a short 70 ' pitch I've done many times and I get up on it and they were too large. Just a bit, but if my partner hadn't clipped 2 aliens to my waist before I'd stepped off the deck.....
Dohhh.
Nice write up.
Thanks
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roninthorne
Jun 20, 2006, 8:40 PM
Post #8 of 8
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Registered: Nov 27, 2002
Posts: 659
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Sorry for the long delay in reply... to be honest, I was kinda bashful, all of a sudden....
You are all too kind.
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