The Life of a Relic

Yosemite Update

2009-06-06T21:21:00.005-04:00

My comment about Hetch Hetchy being more peaceful on the Memorial Day weekend than Yosemite Valley provoked a comment chiding me for not supporting restoration of the Hetch Hetchy to its origianl, pre-damming condition. I had no idea that anyone was proposing restoration of that flooded valley, but learned with a bit of internet research that an organization called "Restore Hetch Hetchy" is proposing exactly that. It's an interesting idea. Check out their website (find it by serching one the organization's name).

Marc and I finished his week here by climbing Munginella and making an attempt on Royal Arches. I managed to turn the relatively tame Munginella (3 pitch, 5.6) into something of an adventure. After Marc led the first pitch without incident, I started up pitch two as a thunderstorm threatened. Not content to climb the obvious corner, I headed right to have a look around an arete. As I got twenty or thirty feet up, it started to sprinkle. I realized I was off route, but I spotted a bolt and two rivets on the arete above me. I decided I had a better chance of beating the hard rain to the top if I kept on up the arete than if I took the time to go down and get back on route. So, up I went.

I'll just get up and clip that first rivet. Hmmm. This is pretty thin. Ahh. There's the rivet; got it clipped; that's better. But its still might thin on this arete, and the raindrops aren't helping the friction on these smears. But here's the bolt. That's solid. Now for the last rivet, Got it; but now where do I go? No more pro above, better traverse left to that big crack. This is a bit thin, but then I am Traverso Man. Yep, there is the crack, nice big cam goes right in. Whew! Its getting wetter and wetter; I better get this rope up to the top before things get too slippery to climb. Those cracks at the top look good. I'll head for them and combine pitches two and three.

I got up to the cracks (nice 5.7 hand ones), but the rope drag created by clipping the bolts and rivets on the extreme right edge of the face and then putting that cam into that crack at the left edge is horrendous! I can barely pull the rope up. And it's really raining hard now, making the hand cracks very slippery. I decide it's time for some imprompt aid (aka French Free). I plug a cam into a crack, clip myself to it, lean back, and pull for all I am worth to get 4 feet of slack so I can make a second, higher placement. As the rain pours down, the second cam goes in and I repeat the process, achieving another 4 or 5 feet of slack. I fumble a bit and then get the third and final cam in. Using my legs to lift, I get just enough additional slack to top out and sling a tree. I'm up, but very wet and cold. Looking down, I notice that Marc has found and donned the rain jacket I brought along in our pack. Well, no point in both of us getting hypo thermia.

After a bit of discussion as to whether Marc should follow me up or I should try to rap back to him, Marc heads up. I am surprised at how quickly he is able to climb the very thin arete, which is now running with water. He explans that some tugs on the draws I had attached to the rivets and bolts helped his progress. He soon joins me at the top and we make haste down the walk off as the rain starts to let up.

The next day, Marc's last in the Valley, we get up at 4:30 am to attempt Royal Arches (5.7, 15 pitches). We make it slightly less than half way up before the buildiing thunderheads persuade us that we sould rap off. it's a fun climb and I really want to go back and finish it.

The partner I had lined up for the next few days had car trouble and had to bail.
So I did some touring about and a bit of solo aid practice. My aid skills are really improving.

Valerie flew into SF and she and I drove back to the Valley yesterday. Ezzie's alternator cdrapped out near Sonora. Fortunately, witrh the help of a spare battery we limped far enough to find an auto parts store that sold us a replacement. We installed it in the parking lot, with some help from two mechanics who were passing by and hlep us get the serpentine belt back on. Ezzie ran great the rest of the trip.

While I was gone there was a pretty good storm in the Park, with enough snow to shut Tioga Pass briefly and turn the ground white at Crane Flat (6000 feet). The floor of our tent got wet, so I bought a tarp to cover it. I had a good time showing Valerie the Valley and taking pictures of the sights. Today was cold and cloudy with afternoon rain. We managed to do some top roping in the morning, including a couple of tough cracks (5.8/5.9??). This afternoon in light rain we practiced aid on the overhanging LeConte boulder. Val was a star, sending her first aid route in fine style!

Return to Yosemite

2009-05-27T17:37:00.004-04:00

There it was: El Capitan. On Thursday, May 14, 2009, after 38 years and a mostly uneventful cross country drive in Ezzie, the Captain loomed, huge and sharp, above me. The images of the Valley I had brought with me, a mixture of fuzzy memories and photos from guidebooks and magazines, were nothing compared to the sharp, overpowering reality of the magnificent rock walls. I immediately called Lois on my cell phone and gushed.

With advice from a friendly climber, I found a free, roadside campsite among the towering trees of the Stanislaus National Forest. Of course, it has no facilities, not even bear boxes to keep food safe from Yosemite's lumbering, furry pests. But it is a beautiful spot, and I am hoping that the bears accustomed to mooching people food will all be down in the Valley nabbing picnic baskets.

Saturday and Sunday I had Big Wall School with a guide from Yosemite Climbing School and Guide Service. The idea was that I would do the two day school and then a two day wall climb of a route on the Washington Column. We started at Swan Slab where the guide led a crack on aid. He then asked what grade I am comfortable free climbing, and I told him 5.7, some 5.8. He immediately said, "Well, this is a 5.9, you can warm up on it" [on top rope]. I took a deep breath and started up. It was hard, but I made it and felt pretty good until the guide said that someone my age who struggled on that crack would probably not make it up the Column. He reminisced about a similarly old client who had suffered a heart attack Maybe, he suggested, I should get in better shape before trying a wall.

Nonetheless, the lesson continued, mostly with practice jugging and cleaning routes. Steep ones and overhanging ones and low angle faces. Sunday, I jugged a 180 foot face 4 times with almost no rest. My guide assured me the Column would be harder. At one point, he said, "You've done this four times, now. You ought to be getting better at it than you are." He frequently repeated the opinion that I am not fit enough to do a climb on the Column.

About 3 pm on Sunday afternoon, as we took a water break, the guide askede if I had reconsidered doing the column that week. I repsonded by saying that you [the guide] seem to be quite frustrated with me. If so, I said, we ought not to go on a climb together. At this his tone softened and he said, "You're not the problem, Bill. I am feeling a lot of pressure and am not ready to take a client up the Column." When we got back to the guide service office, he arrange for another guide to take me on the climb up the column. Unfortunately, I had to cancel that climb a day later because I got sick.

After recovering, I spent the week doing solo aid practice using my Silent Partner. It went well. I led and cleaned the incredibly overhanging LeComte boulder and a couple of C1 crack routes.

On Saturday, May 23rd, Marc arrived from Las Vegas. It was the Memorial Day Weekend. The Valley was jammed with people and the roads were a bumper to bumper traffic jam. We did the LeCompte boulder that afternoon and then retreated back to the National Forest to camp. To avoid Valley gridlock, we spent the next two days (Sunday and Monday) climbing in the high country near Tanaya Lake, doing two fun 5-6 pitch routes: West End and South Crack. On the latter I led the 5.9 direct start, which involved very thing face climbing and a fingertip layback. Tuesday saw us back in the Valley doing a two pitch aid route, called oddly enough "Aid Crack." Each of the 90 foot pitches took us 2 hours to lead and clean. Decent time for two beginners.

On Sunday evening we made a trip to the Hetch-Hetchy dam and reservoir. Marc, who is the Chief Engineer for the Las Vegas Water Authority, was like a kid in a candy store running around to look at all the facilities. Although John Muir lost the fight in the early 1900s to prevent the flooding of the Hetch-Hetchy valley, I had to think that on this holiday weekend, the flooded valley was a lot more peaceful than the "preserved" Yosemite.

Today is a rest day for this old man; I have beaten my feet up pretty well. Marc is off on a hike; no rest for him.

The Remorseless Old Foe

2009-02-19T12:15:00.006-05:00

Wolfeboro, NH. February 15. 2009. The bedroom is dark. My sister’s house, quiet. The big red digits on the night table read “2:00 am.” My wife Lois lies next to me, breathing regularly. I don’t have to get up for two more hours, but I am too excited to sleep. Today is the day! The day my younger daughter Valerie (23) and I are to attempt to climb Mount Washington. As I lie in the dark, I think.

Returning to climbing after a 35-40 year layoff has gotten me to thinking about time and what its passage means. For physicists it’s the fourth dimension, but a peculiar one in which we can travel in only one direction and cannot (at least in a low-speed Newtonian world) affect the rate at which we go through it. I know a ballad in which time is “that remorseless old foe” that robs us of youth and strength, inexorably leading us to our graves. I am still the same person with the same legs and feet who in the 1960s could run a mile in 4 minutes and 30 seconds and climb Mount Rainier without bothering with rest steps. But time has, without my consent or choice, changed me. Now I am happy to run 12 minute mile pace on the tread mill in the gym and the rest step is my salvation on even modest hills. Still, I have been repeatedly surprised at how much climbing I have been able to do in the last two years. This attempt to make a winter ascent of Washington will test again how just how much I can still do.

In one sense, this climb had its genesis at Thanksgiving just past. Lois, Valerie, our older daughter Karen and I spent the holiday visiting my 97 year old mother in New Hampshire. We took one afternoon to drive up to Pinkham Notch where we walked about a half mile up the Tuckerman ravine trail and then stopped in the AMC lodge. As I wandered around, checking out the weather reports and books for sale, Valerie studied the large molded relief map of the Mount Washington and the Presidential Range. The map shows not only the configuration of the range but also the locations of every one of the more than 150+ deaths that have occurred there, most on Mount Washington itself.

Valerie came over to me. “How hard is it to climb Mount Washington?” I told her that in summer it is just a long uphill hike as long as the weather is good. But she explained, “No, I want to climb it in winter.” Before I had time to think that idea through sensibly, I offered to do the climb with her. She enthusiastically accepted.

I soon began to wonder if I were physically up to the climb. Would that remorseless old foe let me do it? As described here in an earlier post, I conducted a test climb part way up with acceptable results. Val reassured me that I was underrating my own toughness. “You’re forgetting the grit factor, Dad. You’re the best I know at ignoring physical pain. You’ll be fine.” I still had my doubts.

In a second sense, this trip, or at least its meaning for me, had its routes in my childhood in the 1950s. My sister and I spent most of each summer with my mother at the cabin she had built with her own hands on the shore of New Hampshire’s Lake Winnipesaukee. My father joined us for his two-week vacation from the plastics factory. There were pine woods to play in, a lake for swimming and boating, and nearby hills to hike. It was during those summers that my mother taught me how to swim, to swing an ax, to build a campfire (even when the wood was wet), to paddle a canoe. It was a time and place for a boy to imagine great things.

And, above it all to excite that imagination hovered Mount Washington, highest peak east of the Mississippi and north of someplace in North Carolina,. The top thousand feet are bare granite. It has the worst weather in the world (they say); the highest wind speed ever recorded on the face of the planet occurred there. It has a cog railroad to its summit; my Dad, whom time claimed 5 years ago, told of hiking up the tracks when he was a boy. As of about 1960, over 50 people had died trying to climb it.

I didn’t get the chance to try until I was 14 years old. That summer, on a trip from summer camp, I hiked the Presidential Range from North to South. The day we traversed Washington was bright blue, sunny and warm. It was the best place I had ever been, high up among the crags where I could look down on the rocky bones of the earth covered in all but a few places by a blanket of trees. I fell in love. I wanted to climb mountains, big ones. In later years I climbed Washington quite a few more times (several in winter), and took trips West to climb the Grand Teton, Mt. Rainier, Longs Peak and a bunch of other mountains. I also climbed rock in the Gunks and Yosemite, and did a little ice climbing (we cut steps).

But by the early 70s I had gotten busy with law school and then my legal career. I stopped climbing and for almost 35 years ate and drank too much and exercised far too little. I got seriously out of shape. In the mid 90s, when I was in my forties, Lois and I took Karen and Valerie up Mount Washington via the cog railroad. I remember looking out the window of the train at backpackers making their way to the summit and thinking, “I’ll never be able to do that again.” I had surrendered to the old foe without a fight. Even though Karen inspired me to get back into rock climbing two years ago, I have remained unpersuaded that I have the aerobic endurance to climb a real mountain. Washington in winter would make a good test.

I look again at the clock; it’s 3:58 am. I get up and turn off the alarm before it wakes Lois. I pull on my clothes and hear Valerie moving around in the next room, getting ready too. Downstairs I flip on the coffee maker; heat the Gatorade and fill the water bottles. We finish stuffing gear in our packs and climb into Ezzie the minivan. Val drives because, as she says, “Dad, you drive too slow in the morning when you’re trying to wake up. If we want to stay on schedule, we need me to drive.” She gets us to Pinkham Notch at 6 am, right on schedule despite my repeated warnings about the speed traps I imagine the local constabulary have set just to delay us. Our schedule is to make the summit by 12:30 pm. At 1 pm we will turn around and head down even if we have not reached the top.

From Pinkham our route heads up the Tuckerman Ravine trail, a narrow bumpy dirt road that is covered with packed snow frosted with a layer of dry, squeaky powder. We plan to follow the Tuck trail until its junction with the Lions Head Winter Trail about a mile and thre quarters ahead. From there we will follow the latter trail to tree line and then climb west along the Lions Head ridge, cross the Alpine Meadow, and turn toward the north to ascend the cone. The elevation at Pinkham is 2000 feet above sea level; that at the summit, 6288 feet. We have a climb of almost 4300 vertical feet in front of us.

At about 6:30 am, just as the light of day is beginning to improve visibility, we set out, stopping briefly to take pictures of each other at the beginning of the trail where a sign displays the level of avalanche danger ahead. As the light strengthens we see around us a beautiful day. The powder snow covering the ground and clinging to the trees is pure white. The sky is above us is blue, with a few clouds near the tops of the surrounding hills. Our crampons squeak in the dry powder as we walk.

I had stressed to Valerie that the secret to staying warm in the mountains in the winter is not to get hot and sweaty. I start with three thin layers, she with five. Ten minutes up the trail I persuade her to shed one. I had also explained that while I thought I could do this climb, I was going to have to set a slow steady pace, with the emphasis on slow. So we walk slowly and soon are passed by two groups that had started just after us: a couple and a ten person group from New Hampshire College.

Despite our slow pace, after an hour or so we catch up to the college group for the first of several times. They are taking a break and we decide to do the same, being sure to eat and drink to keep our energy and hydration up. Another half hour of steady walking brings us to the beginning of the winter Lions Head trail. There is also summer trail, but it is too prone to avalanches for acceptably safe winter use.

I tell Valerie, “This is where the fun begins. It’s going to be the steepest part of the climb.” True, but it starts harmlessly enough as a path through a quiet world of snow covered fir trees. Shortly though it starts to climb. Soon we are using the French flat foot technique I taught Valerie a couple of days before. One walks sideways up the hill, crossing one foot over the other and using the ice ax on the uphill side for balance. We are moving well until we came to the steepest section, where we catch up with the college group again. Some of their members are having trouble negotiating what they describe as very steep ice covered with powder snow. I’m glad that I included a little technical ice climbing in Valerie’s training. When our turn comes, we have no problem front pointing up the ice using our axes and some handy tree routes for hand holds. After a little less than an hour on this steep stuff, we come to tree line.

The wind, which had not been much of a factor while we were in the trees, is blowing quite briskly here. The sky above us is still clear, but there are clouds sitting on the summit. They worry me a bit. I tell Valerie, “Welcome to Mount Washington in winter.” To myself I think, “It’s just the same as it was back in 1965.” Yes, I can be the same person in the same three-dimensionsal spot as I was years ago. But the passage of time, or my travel through it, means it's not the same at all. What is time that it can separate me from my younger self and from the memory of a place in which I am standing?

We snack again and put on our alpine gear: balaclavas with face masks, dark glasses, wind shells and hoods. Conditions don’t seem severe enough to warrant our Gore-Tex wind pants. I had worried about the snow conditions above tree line. Will the powder snow have collected in deep drifts that will slow our progress? But the footing seems fine, hard packed snow and occasional ice. I take a compass reading and check to see if my GPS device (my best Christmas present – thanks Lois) is working and fixing on the right waypoints. It is. I remind Val to keep looking back to fix the descent route in her mind, and we start up.

In less time than I had anticipated, we climb to the summit of Lions Head, a small rock outcrop with great view into Tuckerman Ravine. We take a few pictures and push on across the Alpine Meadow. The wind is blowing hard here, but not so that we can’t talk to each other. The hand signals we had agreed on the night before aren’t needed. At one point the trail gets quite icy and runs near the edge of Tuckerman ravine. I worry that Val might get blown off her feet and over the edge. I point out to her that neither of us wants to fall down that way. She says nothing, but is probably thinking, “Gee Dad. I sure am glad you mentioned that. I was just about to jump over the edge. Good thing I brought you along.” I also check her face for frostbite several times and remind her to keep her nose covered. At this point I am very anxious to make the summit and don’t want to have to turn back because my daughter’s nose is frozen. A better father might worry about his daughter’s nose; I worry about making the summit.

We come to some a steep snowfield. As I lead up, I am briefly transported to back Mount Rainier in 1968. I use my feet to kick steps into the snow and my ice ax for balance on the uphill side just as I had then. For a monument I have travelled backwards through that fourth dimension. But just as quickly I am back on Mount Washington, stopping to catch my breath as other parties climb past this tired old man.

By the time we start up the cone proper, the clouds have lifted off the summit and it is, at least temporarily, that much sought after thing: a bluebird day. I turn to Valerie and say, “You know, we are going to make it.” And we do. The last quarter of a mile is hard for me. I think the altitude is finally starting to affect me, so I set an even slower pace. But at 11:24 am we climb onto the summit of Mount Washington; Valerie for the first time, I for the first time in 40 years. The wind is blowing about 30-40 mph. The temperature is +8 F. The sky is bright blue and the snow is white. There are no other colors. We put on our puffy jackets (mine a relic from the 60s) and find a friendly climber to take pictures of us by the summit sign. In the lee of a building, we eat and drink again and then head down.

It takes us three hours to make the descent. It’s easier on the heart and lungs than the climb, but much harder on the knee and ankle points. At Lions Head we walk down into the clouds. It's 1:00 pm and people are still coming up in the fog. They are less scared of this mountain than I. We arrive at the bottom almost simultaneously with the college group. I am tired and beat up, but happy. The old man actually climbed Mount Washington in winter! The remorseless foe had a bad day. Valerie is tired, but not as much as I, and much less beat up. She is trying to persuade me to take her and Karen out for some technical ice tomorrow. I am thinking about a hot bath and bed.

At some point on the ride back to Wolfeboro (Val drove again) I talked about time, how its passage changes some things and doesn’t change others. I have known Valerie since she was born 23 ½ years ago; I hope to know her for another 20 or more. For all of that time, each of us has been and will remain at core the same person. But our-one way trips through time have changed not only our physical attributes, but also our relationship. When Valerie was three, I was in charge and she, dependent and physically limited. I made her angry then by refusing to take her on a hike up a small hill called Mount Major. I didn’t think she was old enough to make a trip I and her older sister Karen could do. Val still remembers and resents my refusal. In a few years she will be visiting me, likely in a nursing home, and will have to help me get in and out of bed. She will be the capable one, the one in charge, and I will be the dependent one. Time will have made all the difference. But our trajectories through time allowed us, on this day, February 15, 2009, to be climbing partners both able to make a winter ascent of Mount Washington as a team. I am so very grateful.

Mount Washington Valley Ice Fest 2009

2009-02-10T12:41:00.005-05:00

“Back in the Day” (that would be the 60s for me) climbing was a fringe activity. Only a few, strange, obsessed folks climbed. We proudly accepted the skepticism and even derision of most everyone we knew. We were crazy to climb and proud of it. Most of the best climbers were poverty stricken bums, who sacrificed even a decent place to live for the chance to travel the country by thumb from cliff to mountain. Equipment was hard to get. REI had only one store. It was in a loft in Seattle. I bought most of my gear from Peter Limmer’s boot shop in North Conway, NH, a place I got to only about twice a year. There were very few climbers offering guide services; it was a point of honor never to hire one. We learned from books, our friends and our mistakes. Even so, an astonishing number of us survived.

Nowadays climbing is almost mainstream. There are climbing gyms where six year olds are taken by their adoring, suburban parents for birthday parties, and young singles go to pick up hot bodies. A multitude of outdoor gear companies sponsor “athletes” and advertize in slick, mass circulation climbing mags. The Gunks are crowded on nice weekends; I have even waited in line to get on a climb. Guide services abound and, there are certification programs to assure that guides know whereof they teach. Corporations hire guides to take their employees out for team building weekends. There are stores selling climbing gear in every third strip mall. Being a climber is little if any stranger or crazier than being a skier or golfer.

In short, popularity has ruined climbing. Are you sure?

I just finished three days of clinics at the Mount Washington Valley Ice Fest put on by (gasp!) a guide service: International Mountain Climbing School in North Conway. As I sat down to write, I realized how wonderful it is to have events like this one, which didn’t exist back in the day. As a brand new ice climber, I was able, in three days of instruction, to get knowledge and skills it would have taken me at least a season, probably two, to acquire in the old days. I met some great people, both folks I might climb with in the future and some of the pros I read about in the magazines. Events like this one combined with the ready availability of the best gear and the partner-finding potential of the internet make climbing so much more accessible than in the past. I am climbing more, learning faster and having more fun than I did “Back in the Day.”

My first Ice Fest clinic, billed as Introduction to Mixed Climbing, took me out to a little cliff called Trollville near Jackson, NH. As we dropped our packs, our instructor pointed to a couple of steep ice flows and said, “We’ll warm up on these grade 4s and then move around the corner for the real stuff.” The other three students nodded confidently and started putting on their crampons. I started to wonder what I had gotten myself into; I had never climbed anything nearly as steep as these “warmup” climbs. The guide may have noticed the stricken look on my face, for he pointed to a spot a little farther down the cliff and added, “There is a grade 3+ over there if anyone wants to start on it.” I did! Belayed by a doctor who said he was planning an ice climbing trip to Katahdin in a couple of weeks, struggled up the easy route. So far so good.
I entertained the idea of just repeating this same route all day, but could not face the humiliation that plan would entail. So I tried what looked to be the easier of the two steep grade 4s. Despite being hit in the helmet by a chink of ice near the bottom of the climb, I got up it. Cool.

As I was lowered off, I expected the guide to say something like, “Nice work.” Instead he looked over at me and hollered, “Bill, what happened to your head?” That was disconcerting. What had happened to my head? Maybe that chunk of ice? I put my hand up to my forehead and it came away red. Blood, on my hand and on the ice by my feet. I guess that chunk had hit more than my helmet. Once I was back down, the emergency team swung into action. First, and most importantly, my fellow students got several pictures of my bloody head. Then I was surrounded by a guide, the doctor, my friend Carolyn and another student who is an army medic, all wielding first aid kits. Sadly for these ever so prepared first responders, my injury turned out to be nothing more than three small, albeit bloody scrapes on my forehead. They contented themselves with application of a band aid, and we went back to climbing. After I clambered up the other grade 4, we all moved down the cliff to the “real stuff.”

Now the rest of the trouble began. Mixed climbing involves using ice tools (axes and crampons) to climb routes composed of both ice and rock. The “easy” mixed route had a little ice at the start and then a gigantic rock overhang. I immediately scratched that one off the list of possible for Bill. Again taking pity on the newbie (me), our guide set up a top rope on a nearby climb that started with about 80 feet of steep ice followed by some rock foolishness at the top. Although the guide said it was about a grade 5, it was the only climb in this area that looked remotely doable for me. Unless I wanted to stand around and watch the others climb all afternoon, I was going to have to try it.

The Katahdin-bound doctor gave it a try first, getting part way up before lowering off. Not a good sign for me. Nonetheless, being without any alternative, I tied in and began to work my way up. I managed about 45 feet of the ice before my arms gave out and I, too, lowered off. Actually, I felt pretty good about my effort. It was steep and strenuous, but I felt in control (until my arms gave out) and I learned some useful techniques for climbing steep ice. I then spent some time watching the other members of the group climb the mixed stuff. Carolyn made it up the giant overhang on her second try; I was so proud for her. Our guide astonished us all by doing an even harder mixed route, using tiny holds with his axes and crampons. The army medic, a young man from Vermont, got three quarters of the way up the same route. Very impressive.

I tried the steep ice again, this time making it about 70 feet up. Our guide then did it and showed me how I could have gotten a good rest at a lower angle spot two-thirds of the way up. If I had, I think I would have made it all the way. Next time. I didn’t get any mixed climbing practice, but I did learn a bit about steep ice and greatly expanded my view of what I am capable of doing. A good day.

On Friday night I went to the slide show and dry tooling exhibition at the Cranmore Ski Area’s climbing Gym. Kevin Mahoney and Freddie Wilkinson put on a slide show and talk about their trip to Nepal to climb an incredible Himalayan ice route. They named it the New Hampshire Route. Many, many years ago I hoped to become an expedition climber and go to the great ranges. I never made it, but now it is a treat to meet climbers who have.

My next clinic was Snow and Ice Anchors. In the morning we did ice. I learned some fine points of placing ice screws and equalizing two and three point anchors. But, best of all, we made V-threads. I’ve read about this method of drilling two, intersecting holes into the ice and passing a sling or rope through them. But had never before made one or even seen one made. I was very excited to have my holes intersect as planned on my first try. In the afternoon we moved to snow anchors, using our mountaineering ice axes and snow pickets to construct anchors. Then we did snow bollards: large teardrop shaped trenches cut into the snow to make a large, central pillar around which the rope is passed. I have read about bollards but never thought they would work. Wouldn’t the rope just cut through the snow and fall down the slope. Not if the snow is firm enough. The bollard I made held three of us throwing our weight on the rope.

Ice Fest ended for me with another ice climbing clinic, this time a mellower one. Six of us went out with guide Freddie Wilkinson, whose articles I have read and enjoyed in several publications. He took us to the amphitheater at Frankenstein cliff in Crawford Notch where we climbed several grade three routes, including the Blobs and the Cave. The temperatures were relatively warm (30s F.), so the ice was a bit softer than I had previously experienced. The tools went in easily and stuck. Freddie is a great teacher and our group developed a very supportive spirit. It was a great, fun day.

I thoroughly enjoyed Ice Fest and am grateful that events like this one exist. I’m so glad popularity has ruined climbing.

Valerie's Climb

2009-01-25T09:57:00.003-05:00

Valerie wants to climb New Hampshire's Mount Washington in winter. She's my younger daughter (23) and a fine athlete, although not really climber. I think she has fastened on this goal because it's hard. Mount Washington is only 6288 feet tall, but it is renowned for fierce winds, low temps and terrible storms. This morning I checked the web site for the summit weather station; the conditions are typical: temperature -11 F., wind 60 mph from the west, wind chill -47 F. Atypically, it is one of those rare days when the summit is not socked in with freezing fog.

In a rash moment, I told Valerie I would do the climb with her. I climbed to the summit (these days I guess I am supposed to say I "summited") several times in the '60s, but have not been up there since. As I thought about this little adventure, I began to wonder if I have the strength and stamina to make it up. After all, in 1968 when I was last up there, I could run a mile in 4 minutes and 30 seconds. Yesterday I was happy to finish a three mile run with a burst of 12 minute pace.

I decided a test was in order. Last week, while in NH for ice climbing lessons (see below), I took a day to see how I would do on the mountain. I got my gear together, including my mountaineering ice ax, crampons, warm clothes, balaclava, etc., etc. and set out up the Tuckerman Ravine trail from the AMC Pinkham Notch camp. My sister had considered going with me. But she, poor thing, still has to work for a living, so I wound up going solo. My plan was to hike up the relatively easy Tuckerman trail and then follow the Lions Head winter trail up to tree line at about 4500 feet. I figured that by timing how long it took me to climb to tree line, I could tell if I move fast enough to make the summit and back in a 10 or 11 hour day.

The day was sunny and bright, with the summit predicted to have a high temperature of 6 F., wind at 60 miles an hour, and wind chill -20 to -30 F. A decent day. I started at 9 a.m. and walked slowly up the Tuck trail, stopping occasionally to sip hot Gatorade from my sock enshrouded water bottle. The only other person I saw all day was a hiker who started about a minute before me; he soon disappeared up the trail. By 10:30 a.m. I was at the junction with the Lions Head trail, where I took a short snack break. So far so good.

I followed the Lions Head trail through the woods. In short order it got quite steep. This being the winter Lions Head trail (the summer tail is deemed too prone to avalanches for safe winter use) it has no switchbacks angling across the slope. No. It just goes up! I used the pied a plat or "flat footing" technique I had learned in my ice climbing lessons until the trail got really steep. Then I switched to single-ax front-point technique, which got me nicely through the steepest parts. In reasonably good time I was at tree line, where the wind started to pick up and the light snow left by a recent storm, to blow horizontally. I felt pretty good, so I decided to go on a little farther to see what conditions on the bare, rocky slopes were like. The temperature was probably about 10 F. and the wind blowing at 20-30 mph. I soon pulled my balaclava over my face to protect against frostbite, but felt no need of either my down jacket or wind pants.

After a little less than an hour of slow climbing through drifting snow, I reached a spot about 5000 feet above sea level from which I could see up to the tops of towers on the summit, and down into the magnificent Tuckerman Ravine. I thought about going farther up, but decided it was not a very smart idea to go solo too far above tree line. I checked my watch -- it was 12:30 p.m. -- and headed down.

I glisaded most of the way down the Lion Head Trail, down-climbing only the steepest parts. As I neared the bottom on the Tuckerman Trail, I saw a cute little Pine Martin bounding along in front of me. He was only the second mammal I had seen all day (the first being the hiker who left me in the dust).

The time was 2 p.m. when I arrived at the Pinkham notch camp. The climb from Pinkham at an elevation of 2030 feet to 5000 feet and back had taken me 5 hours, leaving me 6 hours out of an 11 hour climbing day to do the top 1200 feet up and down. The last 1200 feet are without doubt the hardest and slowest, due to the thinner air at 5-6000 feet, much worse footing in drifted snow, and the cold and high wind. But, based on handling the first 3000 feet in 5 hours, I think I can make the rest in less than the remaining 6 hours of my 11 hour day, providing Valerie and I can find a day with decent weather.

I called her and told her the trip is on. We are planning to try the climb in mid-February, after the North Conway Ice Fest I am going to attend. I'll report.

Hating Ice for Fun

2009-01-17T13:29:00.003-05:00

When as a teenager I was first expressing an interest in climbing (circa 1963) my mother produced from somewhere a thick tomb on mountaineering technique written in about 1890 by an Englishman named, I think, Geoffrey Young. I don’t remember much about the book except that it had a tan cover, recommended wearing hobnail boots, and inveighed strongly against ever using a foothold on rock or ice unless that hold is bigger than your foot is wide. This principle, of course, made climbing rock of any difficulty at all impossible and mandated the cutting of big steps in snow and ice.

It is amazing how humans can create “rules” that limit their ability to achieve. For many years, the insuperable four-minute-mile barrier held back distance runners.

Rock climbers abandoned the requirement that every foothold be at least 3-4 inches wide early in the 20th century as they began the exploration of the limits of human ability that has given us the 5.15 climbs done by today’s hard kids. But on ice the story was different. The belief in the necessity for cutting nice big steps persisted until almost 1970. Only in the late 1960s did Yvon Chouinard import front point technique into North America from Europe. Jim McCarthy of Gunks rock fame brought that technique East by leading the first front point, no-steps-cut ice ascent of Pinnacle Gully on Mount Washington in 1970, the year I graduated from college.

My few adventures into ice climbing in my first climbing life all took place in the 1960s and involved cutting lots of steps with my 3 foot long, wooden shafted ice ax. It was hard work that involved overheating and freezing at virtually the same time. It made rock climbing seem like a paradise. I stayed away from ice as much as possible.

Since I got back into rock climbing two and a half years ago, ice climbing has reared its ugly head from time to time. I see pictures of cool looking routes in glossy mags and the American Alpine Journal. My Gunks partner Carolyn is a devoted ice climber and occasionally has suggested I try it. My brother in law Dan is not a climber but lives in New Hampshire and loves winter sports. He has mentioned giving ice climbing a try. He even owns a pair of ancient axes.

Last winter I barely dodged the bullet. I succumbed to Dan’s entreaties and agreed to schedule a one-day Introduction to Ice Climbing class for the two of us with International Mountain Climbing School in North Conway, N.H. Imagine my relief when I called and learned all the classes in our time-window were already full. Another winter without ice climbing, sweet.
This winter, though, something strange happened. Maybe it was Carolyn’s enthusiasm or the pretty pics in the magazines. The idea of trying some ice climbing started making clandestine appearances in my head. I didn’t think I would like it, but felt I should give it a try. They say that a good definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting to get a different result. But maybe insanity also consists of deciding to try a difficult, potentially dangerous sport because you think you won’t like it.

In any event, I decided to try ice. I bought a book with a bright red cover. A whole chapter is devoted to staying warm in sub zero temperatures by wearing very little insulating clothing. Swell. I told Dan I would schedule two days of lessons for us. I called Carolyn and asked her if she would take me out and show me how it is done. I was insane.

On Sunday, January 4th, as the weather babblers on TV and Radio were heralding the arrival of a record setting cold snap, I packed my cold weather gear and crampons (I had gotten them for my aborted trip to the Tetons) and headed for New Paltz. Next day was bright, blue and cold. With rented ice axes (these days everyone calls them “tools”) I met up with Carolyn and her friend Lee. We headed for an area called the playground. At least the name sounded non-threatening. I was a bit disappointed to learn that Lee had climbed ice half a dozen times before. I had hoped that he was also a beginner.

As we stood under the 30 foot high ice cliff, I realized I was feeling what novices must feel about rock climbing. I was looking up at the smooth, shiny, seemingly steep ice and wondering, “How in the Hell does anyone climb that.” Even more to the point, I was wondering how I would climb it.

Carolyn was great. She talked me through each step of the process from what to wear to when to put on my crampons and how to swing my axes, respecting my ego and tender feelings by casting her advice in the form of “What I [Carolyn] do is X,” so I would not feel she was lecturing to me. Watching her and Lee climb the cliff was a bit encouraging. I began to see how the techniques might work for me. My turn came and I stepped up to the ice and began, just as Carolyn had instructed: reach up and drive the pick of one ax into the ice, test it, step up 6-8” at a time on the front points of my crampons making sure to form a stable triangle with the ax and crampons, step up again until my arm holding ax is in a bent, locked off position, reach up and place the other ax, and repeat the process. After a couple of ax placements, I realized I was actually climbing the ice. Then, I looked up and couldn’t see any good holds above me. Oh, oh! But wait. I don’t need holds. I can make them. So I worked on, soon reaching the anchor at the top. I think I screamed with excitement. I felt like screaming anyway. I had actually climbed a short easy ice cliff!

And you know what? It was fun. I’m not sure what makes it fun, but it is. Maybe it’s the motion itself; swinging the axes and kicking in the front points on the crampons is so different from rock climbing. The sense of climbing something that looks so completely un-climbable is cool. Then there is the beauty: the ice sparkled in the sun and stood out like a jeweled castle against the blue sky. As Lee and I watched Carolyn climbing, it occurred to me that she looked just like those picture in the AAJ of alpinists high on big mountains. I said, “Wouldn’t it be great to be at a belay half way up a big climb and watching Carolyn leading the crux so we could follow her to the top.” And I actually meant it. Don’t ask why I thought that would be great, but I did.

So I dropped my thoughts of trying to get back the money I had paid EMS for the ice lessons Dan and I were scheduled to take later in the week and headed Ezzie, the faithful mini-van, to NH. Despite temps hovering around zero F., the lessons were excellent. We stayed remarkably warm; we learned a lot; Dan got hooked. On the second day, we climbed two Grade WI3s called Thresher and Goofer’s. The latter is one pitch about 180 feet long. I was surprised at how long I could stand on my front points without coming apart.

Yesterday I bought axes (I mean “ice tools”) and signed up for three clinics at the North Conway Ice Fest in early February. Tomorrow Dan, my sister Cassie and I are going back to Cathedral to top-rope some ice. I am, most definitely, insane.

Couldn't Catch a Cat

2008-11-18T15:33:00.006-05:00

George and I set out on Sunday, November 16th, the last day of my second trip to Red Rock, to climb Schaefer’s Delight on Whiskey Peak. We got to the base to find a party of three just starting, so we headed a few yards right to Ballentine’s Blast, a 400 foot 5.7 that gets two stars in Handren’s book. It was the first time George and I had climbed together since he broke his ankle on our attempt to do Tunnel Vision last February. I described in an earlier post his tough, determined self rescue from that mishap. I was glad to learn that he is enthusiastically back to climbing.

Bill following George's lead up the first pitch. Photo by George Wilson.

George did a very efficient lead of the first pitch of Ballentine’s, about 120 feet up two nice inside corners to a double bolt anchor. My lead came next and was supposed to go up to and over an “overhang,” but all I saw above our belay was a slab ending in a short vertical wall. No overhang, at least to my Gunks-educated eye. So I racked up and went searching for the missing ‘hang.

I didn’t see anything to the left, so I went right up an inside corner that ended in a roof. If that roof was the “overhang,” we needed someone a lot better and stronger than I to climb it. I looked farther right and saw a possible route: a pretty white pillar with rounded holds on its slabby face. That pillar did not look very hard and would probably be easy for many climbers. But climbing it turned out to be one of the most intense experiences I have had on the rock. The following, present-tense description is my attempt to capture how I felt.

Heading right toward the pretty white pillar. Photo by George Wilson.

I put a cam in the 3 inch crack in the back of the corner, climb up a bit farther toward the roof and step right across a 2 foot wide chimney onto the white face. There are holds, but rounded ones with nothing positive on which to get a reassuring grip. The bits of lichen all over the white rock strongly suggest that no one has climbed this way, at least in quite a while. But it looks like the slab will go on mostly friction holds up to a 12 foot high verticle bulge 60 to 70 feet above. I think I can turn the bulge on its right corner where there are small patches of desert varnish that should offer some positive holds and (I hope) some pro. Above the bulge the face eases off again to a slab that looks doable. We have a 70 meter rope that I think will be long enough.

I look around for a place to put another piece, but don’t find anything. I move gingerly from one rounded, sloping hold to the next, easing my way up the white slab. I see a horizontal crack about 30 feet up where it looks like I can put in a cam. I work up toward it, focusing hard on each movement of hand or foot and each weight shift. The lack pro and of anything good and solid to stand on or wrap a hand around is making me nervous. The friction on slopers is good, but what if a foot blows? Ah, there is the crack; not all that I had hoped, but still enough for a cam placement. More cautious smearing and I am just under the verticle bulge, 30 or so feet above that last cam. Not a good time to fall.

Fear rises from my belly through my chest and shoulders to my throat and arms, trying to take control and prevent me from climbing effectively and making good decisions. A contrary force of concentration and will forces that fear back down where it can’t interfere. I focus narrowly on one climbing move at a time, each taking me a foot or two higher. I am getting to the patches of varnish now at the bottom of the bulge. I'm breathing. There are some small slots between patches where I can get in a couple of small nuts. If I equalize them, maybe they will hold a fall. Oh, whom am I kidding? I remarked later to George that they were surely good enough to hold a fall by my cat; he weighs 9 pounds.

I haven’t yet climbed up anything I could not down-climb. But I don’t want to come down. The corner of the bulge, although loose and quite friable, looks like it will go. I move up, searching for the most solid hand and foot holds, testing each before weighting it. The last two moves up the corner are the trickiest, not really hard, but spooky due to the fragile rock and poor protection. I avoid using knobs and ridges for fear they will break. Instead I smear on little, rounded bulges and use my palms on slopers. At the top, just as I am starting to think I may not be able to finish the corner, I see a short, hand-size crack that will be perfect to jam. That’s just what I need. No, it’s formed by a boulder that is quite ready to jump off and fall 250+ feet to the ground. Instead, I test a pointy nubbin on the top of the corner, the hand hold I need to pull the last move. Except, it breaks under mild pressure. Fear is rising again. I find a rounded hold that gives me just enough purchase to make the move over the lip onto the lower angled slab above. Whew!

More friction moves on sloped holds take me to the top of what turns out to be a pretty white pillar. Just as our 70 meter rope is about to run out, I climb onto a nice, big ledge and build the most bomber three piece anchor ever. George comes up and calmly leads us up the last pitch to the top at Lovers ledge.

Bill rapping down the decent gully. Photo by George Wilson.

Later study of Handren’s guidebook, particularly the picture of our route, shows that I was seriously off-route on my lead. I should have gone up over the first vertical wall, which is what Handren referred to as the overhang. But I am very glad I did the pitch described above. It was one of the best experiences I have had rock climbing. But why is that? I’m not sure, but I think the answer lies in the mental/emotional state I was in during the lead. I felt a tension or struggle between my fear on one hand and my will and concentration on the other. My key to climbing effectively was to push the fear away by concentrating on each move, each decision to the exclusion of fear and distraction. What hold should I use for my right foot? How much weight will it hold? How should I shift my weight? Can I use that flake as a handhold? Maybe just for balance? The feeling of committing all my mental and physical effort to just one task -- moving up another few feet of rock – was exhilarating in a way almost no other experiences are for me. Was I scared? Terrified might be more like it. But it is the fear and the very real possibility of disaster that makes possible the complete, exhilarating concentration and sense of mastery of myself.

I have only had these feelings a few other times while climbing: once on Whitehorse slabs doing friction in the rain, once leading a steep 5.7 at Seneca rocks, perhaps a time or two at the Gunks. But none of those experiences was as intense or prolonged as the white pillar next to Ballentine’s.

Climbing With Marc

2008-11-18T13:54:00.017-05:00

One of the constants of a climber’s life is the search for partners. In this, my second climbing life, I have had very good luck finidng people to climb with, largely thorugh the internet. Some of the best have been Jean and Annie (see post below about the Magic Purple Cam), Peter, Carolyn, Don and Jon. Marc, Las Vegas/Red Rock local, is another really good, solid partner. When he and I climb together things just seem to go smoothly and efficiently. On my recent, second trip to Red Rock (November 7-17, 2008), we did three excellent routes. He wisely insisted we start early. He picked me up each morning at my hotel and always brought route photos and beta from Mountain Project. We climb at about the same level and seem to like the same kind of routes: long trad moderates. We are starting to talk about our very different world views. I really enjoy the time I spend with him.

Our first climb was Cookie Monster on the Mescalito formation. It is a three pitch 5.7 with some very good climbing. From its top, Marc found a way to climb up a nice face to the bottom of the last pitch of Cat in the Hat. I led that last pitch, which finishes up rounded friction holds, past a very controversial bolt. It is rated only 5.6, but I was sketched on the run out above that bolt to the top. Marc agreed it was though. In all, though, it was a typical Marc and Bill climb: smooth, efficient and fun. He took these pictures.

Photos from the top: Marc belaying; Bill leading; Bill following.

Bourbon Street, an 800 foot long route on Whiskey Peak that, Handren grades 5.8+, was our second climb together. That little “plus” worried me and Marc. So he brought along a couple of rope guns, Mark (avoid confusion by noting the “k”) and Nathan. See, Marc is always prepared. Mark and Marc made one rope; Nathan and I, the other. The whole route is quite good, but the first two pitches are the best. We swung leads. I took the first pitch, so Nathan would get the second, which is the 5.8+. That pitch turned out to be very fun, but not terribly hard. The crux is a finger crack about 15 feet long. I got some of the best finger locks ever in it. They felt very secure, and together with small foothold on the adjacent face, made the climb something I would be very comfortable leading. Here are some photos Marc took of the climb.

Photos from the top: The brave mountaineers at the top of Bourbon street: Bill, Nathan, Mark and Marc; Bill leading a corner high up; Nathan and Bill at a belay; Mark Leading the 5.8+ finger crack.

For me, the best thing about this climb was the feeling of accomplishment from doing a long roué near the limit of my ability. Most of the places I climb in the Northeast simply don’t have many routes this big. I felt I had really gotten to the top of something.

I have wanted to climb Purblind Pillar (950 feet, 5.8) on the Angel Food wall since seeing some climbers on it while I was climbing Group Therapy last February. On Saturday, November 15th, Marc and I set out to do it. As we walked in and started up I was focused on the size of the route and a feeling of adventure generated by tackling a big objective. Again, things went very efficiently. We swung leads, each getting one of the two 5.8 pitches. We started the climbing at about 8 am and were on top just after 12 noon. Four hours! Looks like we are ready for even bigger and better climbs. Marc took more great pictures.

Photos from the top: Bill (2), Marc, Las Vegas seen over the Calico Hills.

Lessons from Gunks 1965

2008-10-23T14:40:00.006-04:00

The time was late August, 1965. Lyndon Johnson was in the White House and opposition to the Vietnam War was growing. A gallon of gasoline cost well less than a dollar and fueled my father’s Volkswagen Beetle for 33 miles. Bob Dylan had recently plugged in. A Kansasan named Jim Ryun was about to become the first high schooler to run a mile in less than four minutes. “Transistor” radios were popular; personal computers were a thing of the future. In a couple of weeks I would begin my last year of high school.

The place was the Gunks, where Jim McCarthy was the leading climber and we all hammered pitons into the rock for protection. The shoes (mountain boots and kletter shoes) still had hard rubber soles, but the carabineers were made of aluminum and the new nylon ropes of core and sheath design stretched to absorb energy in a fall. The Art Gran guide book, the area’s first, had been published the year before. The hardest climbs Gran described were grade 5.10; there were only a few.

John Parker, a student at Yale, and I were spending a week climbing. We started with Gelsa, a great 5.4 in the Near Trapps and worked our way up the grades. 5.7 seemed to be our limit: about what John could lead and I could follow. One day, John suggested we try top roping a 5.8 called Jacobs Ladder. It is a thin face climb put in near the Uberfall by Phil Jacobus. We spent a full afternoon trying, but neither of us could climb it. I couldn’t get more than a few feet up. It seemed impossible. There was no question of needing to be just a little stronger or a bit more flexible. I simply could not imagine how a human being could climb it.

John and I went back to easier things, including my first trad lead (the second pitch of Baby). But the lesson of Jacobs’s Ladder stuck with me: there was no way on God’s green earth that I would ever be able to climb Gunk’s 5.8. In succeeding years I climbed the Grand Teton and Mount Rainier. In winter I did Mount Washington and the three main peaks of the Northern Presidentials. I led 5.8 cracks in Yosemite. But I never again tried a Gunks 5.8. I had [over] learned my lesson.

When my older daughter Karen got me back into rock climbing two years ago, I happily decided I would spend my second-time-around climbing career doing those wonderful, easy 5.3s and 5.4s which abound at the Gunks. But as I climbed and my skills developed, I led a few slightly harder routes. By the spring of 2008, I had, much to my surprise, led a few 5.7s, a couple on sight. I had noticed in the latest Dick Williams Guidebook that my old nemesis, Jacobs Ladder, was not a 5.8 after all. Williams now rated it 5.10b. Richafrd Goldstone explained that Gran tended to rate the climber, rather than the climb. He thought Jacobus couldn't climb harder than 5.8, so Jacob's Ladder had to be a 5.8. Nonetheless, I stayed true to the lesson of 1965 and kept off Gunks 8s.

Then my friend Don suggested we do Arrow. He had previously followed it and assured me that he would lead the harder second pitch and that I would be able to follow the 5.8 crux move at the top. I reluctantly agreed to give it a try. Don led without trouble. I took several tries (and falls) to figure out the crux move; but I got it! At age 60, 43 years after I had failed on Jacobs Ladder, I had climbed my first Gunks 5.8. But, after the excitement of my achievement wore off, I decided that Arrow couldn’t be a “real” 5.8. I had climbed it, so it must be over rated. I went back and led it with my good friends Annie and Jean. That convinced me: Arrow can’t be a true 5.8, not if I could lead it.

[My younger daughter Valerie seems to have learned this habit of mind from me. A very good college rower, she is often heard to opine that any team she can make (e.g., the University of Pennsylvania's first varsity boat) can't be very good. She is quite wrong.]

On subsequent trips to New Paltz, I tried a few more Gunks 8s. After our misadventure on Columbia/Madame Gs (see below), Carolyn and I spent a day top roping on the Herdie Gerdie block. I got up Dirty Gerdie (5.8) and ¾ of the way up Herdie Gerdie (5.8+). I also did Red Cabbage (5.9-); but I think I cheated around the crux. A couple of weeks later, Lois kindly agreed to belay me on top rope attempts of the first pitches of Columbia and Hyjek’s Horror, both rated 5.8. I succeeded on both. Hmmm? Maybe, just maybe, I can climb Gunks 5.8 after all. But after a bit of quiet reflection, I decided no, I probably can’t. Hyjek’s and Columbia must be over-rated also.

Carolyn led me up City Lights, a 5.8 on which I took a couple of falls before turning the crux. She and I top roped the first pitch of Son of Easy O, a beautiful, thin face 5.8 I had been wanting to try for a while. I climbed it in good style without falling. Can all these 8s be over-graded? The same day we returned to the Herdie Gerdie block where I got all the way up Herdie Gerdie (5.8+) and Carolyn fought her way ¾ of the way up Dogs in Heat. It is a (gasp!) 5.11. That girl can climb!!

I climbed with Don again in early October. Among the routes we did was Main Line in the Near Trapps (thanks to Dick Williams for the new “Purple Dick” guidebook). Its first pitch is a tricky corner that Williams rates 5.7. I led it. Don led the second pitch, the crux of which is a 5.8 overhang. I found that overhang relatively easy. A week later, Don and I did Alphonse, another Near Trapps route with a 5.8 overhang crux on the second pitch. Don led and I found it very do-able. We also climbed Te Dum, a 5.7 I remember struggling to climb back in 1965. This time it was well within my ability.

After we finished Te Dum, Don left. I met up with Jean and Annie, newly arrived from Vermont for a week’s climbing. As evening fell, I watched Jean do a very impressive lead of Handy Andy. I think she did the 5.8 variation. Annie followed. We had dinner with Carolyn and spent Saturday night at the Creekview Campground, J and A in their very nifty VW camper van and I in my somewhat less spiffy, but much beloved, min-van Ezzie.

Sunday was a beautiful fall day with bright blue skies, cool temps and a quilt of red, gold, green and brown foliage laid out at the base of the cliffs. I was happy to spend a day doing mellow climbing with good friends. Jean did a nice lead of Te Dum; as sometimes happens, I found it harder the second time than it had seemed the day before. I often take a climb too casually on a second ascent and don’t focus as I should. Annie then led us up Gelsa, for me another repeat from the day before. She handled the lead well, effectively solving the problems posed by getting off-route and having to down-climb on the second pitch. The climbing was good, but the day stands out in my memory for the good friends and the airy ledges that let me feel a part of the beautiful sky, sun, rock and color. Gunks magic.

On the 7 hour drive home (bad traffic) I had time to think. Maybe I got it wrong back in 1965. Maybe I can climb Gunks 8s. I’ve done a bunch of them, even led one. Surely they can’t all be over-rated. Slowly it sank in: I’m ready to start leading gunks 8s. I think my next 5.8 lead will be Son of Easy O. I’ve done the first pitch and looked hard at the second from below. It looks very doable.

In the overall scheme of things, and even in the narrower world of rock climbing, leading 5.8 in the Gunks is not a big deal, certainly not in a world where kids are sent to kill and die in Iraq and teenagers with a year or two of climbing experience are leading 5.12 and harder. But for me it is a big deal. To be able to do a physical activity better and harder at age 61 than I could do it at ages 16 through 22 astonishes me. To be having more fun climbing now than I did 40 years ago is a gift. I feel almost as if I have been given a second chance at life. I can’t know how long this will last. But I am loving it while it does.

The Red Cabbage Gap

2008-07-31T10:49:00.004-04:00

My father liked pickled red cabbage. On the rare occasions when my mother served it for dinner, he would talk about something he called the "Red Cabbage Gap." I never quite understood what the Red Cabbage Gap was, something I suppose about folks not eating enough red cabbage. But I always think fondly of my father when something reminds of red cabbage. He was the kindest human being I have ever met.

I thought of him last Tuesday. Carolyn and I spent the day top roping some climbs on the Dirty Gerdie boulder/slab near the Uberfall at the Gunks. After, Herdie Gerdie (5.8), and Dirty Gerdie (5.8+), we did Red Cabbage (an interesting crack climb that Williams rates 5.9-). I managed to get up it on my second try. It was the first 5.9 I have ever done in the Gunks. I'm glad it made me think of my father and the Red Cabbage Gap.

One thing the day showed beyond doubt is that Carolyn is a stronger climber than I. She climbed Herdie Gerdie without any observable problem and got up Dirie Gerdie with only a bit of struggle. I on the other hand took innumerable falls before I figured out how to do the cux on Herdie Gerdie, and managed to make it only about 2/3of the way up Dirty Gerdie. On the latter I did at least solve the tricky mantle move. In fact, I did it repeatedly because I kept falling off above and going back up to try the upper part again.

To my surprise, Carolyn tried a 5.11 route called Dogs in Heat. Despite repeated tries, she couldn't quite pull the crux, but I think she was close. I was proud of her. She'll get it next time.

This was the hardest climbing I have done since resuming the sport 2 years ago. I am very sore today (arms and shoulders, particularly). But, if I keep spending some of my climbing time doing similar and maybe even harder routes on top rope, I think I will actually be able to increase the difficulty of what I can climb. Kind of cool for an old man.

Ironically, of the three routes I tried, Red Cabbage, although rated the hardest, was the least difficult for me. Could it be that I have a bit of crack technique left over from Yosemite in 1972? Or was it just my dad's influence, encouraging and supportive as always? He was, after all, the one who drove me to the Gunks for my first rock climbing weekend when I was 13 or 14.

Day after tomorrow Lois and I leave for Honduras on a trip with her church. We are going to be there for about 10 days helping to finish a school the Episcopal Church has been trying for several years to open. We have a heavy suitcase full of parts for a jungle gym the group is going to assemble for the school playground. This will be a real adventure: neither of us has been to central America before.

Bad News, Good News

2008-07-27T18:56:00.008-04:00

I’m thinking I need to bring things up to date climbing-wise. First, the bad news. I cancelled the trip to the Tetons. It’s a weird story. I’ve had pain in my Achilles tendons for many years, since I was training for and competing at the mile run in high school and college. In the last few months (since January), the pain has gotten worse, but I didn’t think too much of it. I’ve been climbing a lot, so of course my ankles and feet hurt. I didn’t think it was more than an annoyance to be tolerated.

But, a few weeks ago, I read in the newspaper that the FDA had just issued a warning that the powerful antibiotic Cipro and related drugs sometimes cause tendonitis leading to ruptures, particularly of the Achilles tendon. I freaked because starting in January I have taken several courses of treatment with Cipro for an intestinal infection. All of a sudden my increased tendon pain scared me. Am I about to rupture an Achlles tendon? The FDA web site said that if someone taking Cipro develops tendon pain, he/she should stop taking the drug and cease all physical activity. It also said the ruptures can occur months after one stops the drug.

Being miles up Garnet Canyon with a heavy pack on my way to the Lower Saddle on the Grand Teton didn’t seem like a very good idea. After consulting a doctor friend I trust (not the one who prescribed the Cipro) I decided to bail on the Tetons. I reluctantly told Marc, with whom I had been planning to climb the Grand. He was a good sport, and we are now planning to climb in Red Rock in November.

Of course, I haven’t followed the FDA’s advice to avoid all physical activity. I’ve been working out at the exercise gym as much as I can without putting too much stress on my tendons. I’ve been to the climbing gym. And, best of all, I’ve been to the Gunks several times, which brings me to the good news.

With my ankles well taped (a skill I learned from the trainer at my college who used to tape my ankles before every track practice) I’ve been able to climb without much pain. Right now my tendons don’t hurt at all when I walk, which is unusual.

I’ve been working my way through the Gunks 5.7s and have recently led Classic, Thin Slabs (5.7 direct start) and Handy Andy, in addition to Limelight and Bloody Mary which I did earlier. I’ve also led Arrow twice, making it my first and only Gunks 5.8 lead.

I’ve done most of my recent climbing with a new friend, Carolyn, who lives in New Paltz and works for both EMS and the Mohonk Preserve (the outfit that owns and manages the trust land on which most of the Gunks cliffs are located). We seem quite compatible as climbing partners and have had some very good times on the rock. One of the best was about 10 days ago on Carolyn’s birthday. She wanted to celebrate by leading High Exposure for the first time. We set out on a bright sunny morning and found the climb available. There was a fellow rope-soloing Directissima, a 5.9 next door, but no one on our route.

High E is THE 5.6 Gunks climb, put in by legendary climbers Hans Kraus and Fritz Wiessner in 1941. The first pitch is pretty mellow and leads up the left side of a large buttress to a very big, flat belay ledge under a large roof. The second pitch begins with a one-of-a-king move out from under the roof, onto an incredibly exposed, slightly overhanging face. The route follows that steep face to the top. To pull the MOVE, one must crouch down under the roof, work out right over the abyss, and find hold on the face above. Exhilarating, shall we say?

After some understandable hesitation and and a bit of moving up and down to the roof, Carolyn pulled the move and led up the steep face to the top. I followed her and we celebrated a great birthday achievement with photos at the top. While on the big ledge, we had met a very nice couple who joined us that evening for Carolyn’s birthday dinner.

Carolyn’s and my latest adventure involved an attempt to climb Madame G’s, another great Gunks 5.6. Carolyn had no problem leading the first pitch to a comfy belay at an oak tree. But that is where the trouble began. Even though I have climbed the route twice before, I managed to direct Carolyn into the wrong corner at the start of the second pitch. This error put us on the second pitch of a climb called Columbia, a pitch that is rated 5.7 by Williams and 5.9- by Swain (go figure). In any event, we both managed to climb past the crux. Carolyn led it and then, not seeing where to go, came down. I went up to take my turn. Thinking I was on Madame G’s, I sought in vain for a viable traverse right to the little semi-hanging belay that I remembered as the end of the Madame’s second pitch. After trying a few traverses that petered out, I managed finally to get to the belay, but only by climbing up much of Columbia, across a sketchy traverse, and down the face about 20 feet to the belay. We agreed that it made no sense for Carolyn to try to follow that bizarre route. So I had to reverse the path to get back to Carolyn at the first pitch belay on Madame G’s. I took a harmless fall trying to down climb the crux on Columbia (those new-fangled cam thingys hold really well, and they are so much easier to place and clean than were pitons!). We ended up climbing a nearby 5.2(Southern Pillar). From a ledge part way up SP, Carolyn lowered me down Columbia so I could retrieve our gear. I then climbed Columbia for the third time (counting my down-climb adventure) so we could finish SP and rap down from the Madame G’s chains. The whole thing was actually more fun than it sounds; but I don’t want to repeat it any time soon.

Tomorrow I am going back to the Gunks for one more day of climbing. It’ll be my last for couple of weeks because my wife (Lois) and I are leaving on August 2nd for a trip with a group from her church to help finish work on a school there. No climbing, but I am really looking forward to traveling with Lois: we always have fun together on trips. And, we’ll be seeing a part of the world we have never before visited.

Photos: Top -- Carolyn at the High E belay ledge. Bottom -- Carolyn pulling THE move on High E.

GRAND DREAMS

2008-06-13T11:03:00.005-04:00

Oh, but we were so much older then,
We’re younger than that now.

There is a website (www.tetonclimbinghistory.com) where you will find digital images of the summit registers for the Grand Teton from 1898 through the 1980s. I couldn’t resist. After hunting for a bit, I found, on the page for August 4, 1971, the following entry: “Bill Hutchins, Philadelphia, PA, Petzoldt Ridge.”

Yep, on that day, 37 years ago, I and a fellow also named Bill whom I had met at Jenny Lake climbed the Grand via the Petzoldt Ridge. My partner was a very good rock climber from the Gunks, but had little experience in the mountains, so most of the planning and route finding fell to me. I spent a sleepless night in a wind buffeted tent on the crest of the Lower Saddle worrying about everything that could possibly go wrong, from not finding the start of the route to being hit by a monster thunderstorm on the summit. However, and despite a few disagreements about Bill’s belaying me without gloves (we used hip belays then, kids) and my tendency to run out moderate rock, we made it to the summit without problems. My cunning plan to follow a guide party down the Owen Spalding descent route (which the guidebook warned could be hard to follow) fizzled when the guide got lost and we had to find our own way down, followed by the guide and his two clients.

I talked Bill into glissading down from the Lower Saddle into Garnet Canyon, but forgot to warn him to wear long sleeves. He rubbed his forearms raw doing an ice-ax self arrest part way down. I wrapped his arms in gauze, which stuck to the open wounds as they dried and was very painful to remove the next day. Bill was not at all happy with me. Nonetheless, that climb of the Grand was one of the hi-lights of my thoroughly undistinguished mountaineering career.

As the years have gone by, I have thought often of that climb. A proud achievement, yes. But one that belonged in a different lifetime to a younger, stronger person. In the several years before my retirement last fall, I walked past a beautiful photograph of the Tetons with the Grand in the middle (of course) as I made my way down the hall to my office each morning. I remembered my climb and tried without success to imagine myself again climbing to the summit. No, that kind of adventure, requiring real physical strength and stamina, was behind me. I was old and far too weak to do anything like that again.

But as I have gotten back into climbing in the last two years, thoughts of the Grand have stayed with me. I asked for, and received, the photograph as a retirement gift from my colleagues in my old office. They framed it beautifully, and I look at it in my bedroom every day. I bought the latest edition of the Teton guidebook and then a topo map of the Grand Teton National Park. As I studied both, the idea grew: maybe I could climb the Grand again. Sometimes I think its possible; other times I think its beyond me. But I've decided to try.

My Red Rock friend and climbing partner Marc and I have arranged to meet at the Teton Climbers Ranch in late July of this year. Our tentative objective is the complete Exum Ridge, a wonderful Grade III, 5.7 right next to my old friend the Petzoldt Ridge.

I am doing everything I can to prepare. I’ve been working out regularly, with a particular emphasis on cardio-vascular conditioning to try to get ready for the strenuous hiking and climbing we will have to do at altitudes up to almost 14,000 feet. I have been climbing a lot, including leading quite a few Gunks 5.7s and one 5.8. I am climbing as well or better than as I was in 1971. I will be spending a week climbing at Seneca Rocks shortly. Then, Lois and I are going to take another week to hike through New Hampshire's Pemigewasset wilderness.

I am going to go out to the Tetons about 10 days before Marc to get acclimated to the altitude and to reconnoiter the approaches to our route. I am hoping to be able to do a couple of warm up climbs as well, which should give me a good sense of whether my fitness is up to the Grand. If not, I’ll call Marc and give him the bad news that we need to scrub the climb. But I am hopeful we can do it. If so I’ll post pictures and a trip report here.

My Lazy Retirement

2008-05-16T13:56:00.004-04:00

What happened to all that free time? To those long lazy mornings when I was going to loll about in my PJs sipping coffee and petting the cat? To the problem of not having enough to do in retirement to stave off boredom?

Forget about it!

Since getting back from Red Rock I have been one busy Relic. Granted, for the first couple of weeks, I chilled, recovering from the trip. But since then, my schedule seems to be designed to test how much activity it will take to wear me out.

I climbed at Rock State Park here in Maryland with daughter Karen, who was visiting on Spring break from grad school in Boston. We top-roped several climbs and, for the first time, I was able to get up a couple of routes, one rated 5.8 and another 5.9, that she couldn’t. When we were done she complained, “I don’t much like being smoked by my 60 year old father.” I replied with a philosophical grin, “I kind of like smoking you. But remember, time is on your side.” Indeed, it won’t be too long before she is visiting me in the nursing home and regaling me with stories of her climbs and races and swim meets, while I wonder how I am going to get out of the bed and into the wheelchair.

My regular climbing partner Peter and I made a trip to Seneca where we confirmed the received wisdom that weather forecasts for that valley are worthless, at best. Saturday was predicted to be wet, but turned out mostly dry. On Sunday, when the weather was supposed to be sunny, it poured. We managed only a couple of routes on the South End (which has a nice short approach that avoids the, by Bill, dreaded Stairmaster).

I’ve also been to the Gunks several times to climb with Peter, my friends Jon the air traffic controller and Don the mortgage broker, as well as Jean and Annie, who were on their annual trip south from Vermont to get a jump on the rock climbing season. On one of these trips I met Carolyn, a New Paltz resident-climber who is preparing for her guiding certification. We climbed together one day.

The Gunks climbing has been pretty interesting. I am working on stepping my leading up from 5.6 to 5.7, and to that end have managed to lead Limelight, Bloody Mary, and the 5.7 second pitch of Morning After. I even led Arrow (5.8), after following it. But, Gunks 5.7s do not appear ready to surrender the sharp end of the rope to me without a fight. I failed miserably in my effort to drag the rope up Handy Andy, a one pitch, thin-face 5.7 near Brat. I went up, and backed off. I went up, and fell. Twice more I went up; twice more I backed off. Finally Peter, apparently tiring of watching the fiasco, took a turn and climbed right up. Grrrrrrrr! By this time I was so discouraged that we had to enlist the services of a passing boulderer (who came walking along the carriage road complete with crash pad strapped to his back) to follow Peter and clean our gear. I whined all the way home in the car. On a subsequent trip, I followed Jean up the 5.7 direct start to Thin Slabs. As I struggled to stick to the sketchy holds, I decided I was in no hurry to come back and lead it. Worst of all is Laurel. How in the world does one start that climb? I have no idea; the foot-hold are non-existent.

There does seem to be a pattern here: the thin face climbs give me trouble, and many sevens at the Gunks consist of tiny, sloping holds on slabs. I decided the problem must be my shoes. Yes! I need better shoes. So, I went from shop to shop trying on every pair of climbing shoes they had to fit my long but skinny size 47 feet. Each pair promised miraculous edging, smearing, jamming or heel hooking (whatever that is). But slowly I confronted the awful truth: my La Sportiva Mythos shoes are just as good as any of these others. The problem may not be the shoes. As Pogo might have said in my situation, “I is met the enemy, and they is my technique.” Damn!! So now I am reduced to practicing my footwork and strengthening my hands. While climbing for two days with Jon, I consciously tried to use only the tiniest footholds available. I’ve dug out my grip trainer and am squeezing away. I’ll let you know if any of this helps.

Speaking of Jon, we had quite a soggy adventure. As seems to be standard practice when I climb with him, on the way north from Maryland I drove through a hard rain in New Jersey, only to find the sun shining on the Gunks. But it had been raining pretty hard in New Paltz the previous couple of days, which meant a lot of water was still draining down the cliffs, particularly in the corners. These conditions gave us a good chance to pretend to be fearless alpine climbers mastering wet rock on some of the easy routes. Jon led us up through the water on Tipsy Trees; and then I did Northern Pillar, with water running down onto my helmet and across the holds on the top, corner pitch. Not really the North face of the Eiger, but still fun.

Jammed in among these climbing trips, were two excursions to South Carolina where your Relic taught at the Department of Justice training center in Columbia, and a trip to Boston to visit Karen for her birthday. I’ve been home for only a very few days in the last six weeks.

Next week I am off to New Hampshire to climb with Karen on Cathedral Ledge and visit my Mother for her 97th birthday. The following week I am going back to New Paltz to climb with Jon and Carolyn. Lois and I are talking about a week long hiking trip through the Presidential range in New Hampshire’s White Mountains, and I am hoping to organize a climbing trip west in July, maybe to the Tetons. In August, Lois and I are going to Honduras to help build a school.

I am starting to have second thoughts about this retirement business. Maybe I need to get a nice office job, so I will have someplace to rest up from all this activity.

George's Ankle

2008-03-15T09:42:00.005-04:00

I got an email from George, the young Las Vegas climber who fell and injured his ankle when we were doing Tunnel Vision on the Angel Food wall at Red Rocks. He has been to an orthopedic specialist and reports that his ankle is broken in two places, not just sprained as his first doctor thought. This news leaves me even more amazed than I was originally that George was able to clear our stuck rope, rap down off our climb and hike out without assistance and with nothing more than my ace bandage and a little tape supporting his ankle. One tough, level headed dude! Here is a pic of him working up the squeeze chimney on the third pitch of Tunnel Vision.

He has relatives in New Jersey whom he visits from time to time. I am looking forward to climbing with him in the Gunks next time he comes east.

The Last Shall Be Best -- Birdland

2008-03-04T22:49:00.007-05:00

I extended my stay here a day so that Marc and I could do Birdland, a highly touted line right next to a route we climbed earlier, Rawlpindi. It was a great day. The weather, the route and the companion were wonderful. Birdland has 5 pitches, with two crux pitches (3 and 5), both rated 5.7+.

I lead one crux and Marc, the other. But the whole route from top to bottom was very fun. No bad pitches and terrific, exposed face climbing up top. This was my best day here.

By the time we got back to the car and were driving away from the cliffs (for my last time, at least on this trip), it was nearly dark. My old body was very tired and sore.

I have had an even better trip than I imagined I would. Good new friends, particularly Marc (who really made the trip the success it has been for me), Johnny and George, excellent weather and some really fun climbing. Mixed in were the trips to places like the Grand Canyon and Zion that I had never seen before. I have become quite fond of the desert landscape, and am already trying to decide when would be the best time to come again.

I am sad to be leaving but looking forward to getting home to Lois, whom I have deeply missed. And, Karen will be home next week on spring break and says she wants to do some climbing. Is this good or what?

Photos from top: Bill leading pitch 3 (photo Marc Jensen); Marc leading pitch 4; Bill about to do the Pitch 5 finger crack (photo Marc J.).

Almost Done in Nevada

2008-03-03T19:52:00.003-05:00

Monday, March 3. Just back in Las Vegas from overnight trip to Zion NP. The place is spectacular. I took many photos but none could capture the scale or power. It made me think a lot that there are forces in this world that dwarf me.

Tomorrow Marc and I will climb again, maybe Birdland. Then I will head back east. It's time. I've missed Lois so much and am starting to think more about home things like my own bed, my favorite chair and MARRS (the orange cat). I likely won't have a chance to post anything more until I get home.

IT HAS BEEN SO MUCH FUN!

Photos: Cliffs of Zion Canyon.

Dark Shadows Almost

2008-03-01T19:49:00.005-05:00

Saturday, March 1. Dark Shadows is a truly spectacular 5.8 route. It rises 400 feet up a large, dark, almost black corner in Pine Creek canyon.

A clear mountain stream runs around pine trees and big rocks right at its base. The first move is a step from a boulder, over the creek and onto the face. Since doing nearby Rawlpindi, Marc and I have been talking about Dark Shadows and trying to work up the courage to attempt this intimidating climb.

We persuaded Johnny Ray to joins us in the effort. We got an early (5 a.m.) start because Marc had to be back by mid afternoon for a Church commitment. The faint first rays of the sun were hitting the Red Rock walls as we racked up in the parking lot. I was not feeling very spry, so I told Marc and Johnny they could split up the leads.

Marc led the first two pitches, which we all agreed were more than a tad harder than their 5.5 and 5.6 ratings. So much for those “soft” Red Rock ratings my Gunks buddies told me about.

Pitch three (5,8) is one of the best I have ever climbed. It feels like one of those awesome alpine corners often pictured in the glossy climbing mags. It’s the real deal. Johnny did a very nice lead about 150 feet up the huge black corner, placing plenty of good pro. Marc followed and then it was my turn. The crux is a flaring off-width crack near the start. I proved my wisdom in not leading by falling out of it. On my second attempt I made it without much trouble, wondering all the while how I had contrived to fall on my first effort.

The last pitch is a nice featured crack with a flaring off-width pod about half way up. Johnny led up to the pod and worked on it for about 30 minutes, before deciding he was not willing to lead it. Neither Marc nor I jumped at the chance to try, so the intrepid trio rapped off. It was quite windy and we were afraid our ropes would get blown across the adjacent face and stuck. Marc solved the problem by showing us how to make saddle bags of coiled rope that hung on his hips and paid out as he rapped. I had never seen this technique before, but it worked great.

Frustrating? A bit. We sure would liked to have climbed the last 40 or so feet. But just to try a route like Dark Shadows makes for a rewarding day. We were up against some big rock, and today did not have quite enough for it. That is one of the things that makes this sport so addictive. The rock is just there. It was here long before we were and was not made for us to climb. It is a force of nature against which we are privileged to test ourselves. What would be the joy in succeeding if we never failed?

It looks like Marc and I will get out for one more climb on Tuesday and then I will head home.

Note for Jean and Annie: Tori seemed subdued today. No whining or complaining. She even seemed to enjoy the first pitch, which is 70 feet of thin face climbing protected by two bolts. She asked me, "What is an equallette?"

Photos from top: Approximate route of Dark Shadows; Marc leading pitch 2; Bill following the pitch 3 corner (photo Marc J.); Johnny working on the pitch 4 crux; Johnny Ray; Marc, Bill and Johnny.

Group Tunnel Grope

2008-02-29T13:25:00.005-05:00

Friday, February 29. Yesterday I got out on the rock again, this time with Johnny Ray and Luke, both of whom are local. Johnny, who often styles himself the “Trundlebum,” is a refugee from the 70s climbing scene in the Valley and an endless source of great stories about the old days. Luke is an 18-year old transplant from Alaska who excels in the gym and is rapidly developing into an excellent trad leader. My first thought on meeting him was “rope gun.” We set out to do an interesting 5.7 called Group Therapy on the Angel food wall. It runs just to the right of Tunnel Vision where my partner George fell and hurt his ankle earlier in the week.

Johnny explained that when climbing with a three person team they like to tie the second and third climbers into the same rope (about 25 feet apart) and have them climb simultaneously while the leader belays both of them from above. I had never climbed this way before, but said I was game to try it. We climbed the first four pitches of Group Therapy this way, sharing the leads without incident. But when we looked up at last two pitches from the fourth belay ledge, my companions were distinctly unenthusiastic about the off-width crack that skirts a big overhang on the final pitch. Both agreed they wanted no part of climbing it. I might have been willing to give it a go, but was not about to try to overrule my local partners who are stronger climbers than I and know this sandstone well. So I said little.

We debated for a while the best alternate course, ultimately accepting Johnny’s suggestion that he try to lead a traverse across a 40 or 50 foot face to the tunnel pitch on Tunnel Vision. The plan was to finish on that route. In concept it was a decent idea. In implementing it we hit a couple of snags.

The traverse was a lot harder than it looked at first. Solid holds soon gave way to tiny slopers and there was almost no place to get in any decent protection. Johnny spent quite a while fussing, grunting, starting, stopping and complaining about the lack of pro. From my spot belaying him, I couldn’t see what was happening, but Luke looked out from a dubious perch on a little tree and gave me reports on Johnny’s progress or lack thereof. Very slowly, sometimes ten inches at a time, the rope paid out. After way more than enough time for me to wonder seriously about the wisdom of the “Trundlebum Traverse,” Johnny made it to a good ledge at the far end. I later realized what a damn fine lead Johnny did. I greatly admire his skill and cool.

It occurred to me that this was the perfect moment to abandon our practice of having the two followers climb simultaneously tied to the same rope. I found something disconcerting about the image of Luke and me smashing into the big corner at which the traverse ended if one of us fell and dangling there while Johnny tried to hold our combined weight of 400 pounds on belay. I also pointed out to Luke that if we climbed across one at a time, I could belay him from behind while Johnny did likewise from in front. That way, even if Luke fell, he would not swing far. He liked that idea and we broke out the second rope we had prudently brought. In the event, Luke crossed without problem.

Now came my turn. Of course, there was no one left to give me a second belay from behind, so I was a tad nervous as I set out. “How bad could it be?” I asked myself. “They both made it OK.” “Plenty,” I answered. “They struggled, and they both climb harder than you do old man.” The first part was not bad, but the last 15 feet got really thin: little rounded, sloping nubbins for both hands and feet. At one point I found myself honestly puzzled as to what was keeping me from succumbing to the pull of gravity. But I too ultimately made it without falling. The “Trundlebum Traverse” was quite a bit harder than anything else I have done here, certainly a grade or two harder than 5.7 and likely harder than the off-width we did all this too avoid.

But at this point we encountered a second problem. The “Trundlebum Traverse” ended half way up the tunnel pitch, in the middle of the said tunnel. Now, the thing about tunnels is that one can get into them at the top end or the bottom end, but not in the middle, unless of course someone has cut a window into the middle, like the famous window in the railroad tunnel on the north face of the Eiger. We looked, but alas, we were not on the Eiger (Alas? Probably a damn good thing, Relic.), and there was no mid point window in this tunnel. Luke suggested rapping down to the tunnel entrance and climbing up. We agreed and rigged anchors around a couple of big blocks at our ledge. I contributed my beloved equallette to the effort. Grrrrr.

Luke seems really to like the tunnel pitch. He proposed that we coil the ropes and just solo it. When I insisted on a belay (Hey, the guidebook rates it 5.6), he led it without placing any pro. Johnny and I followed, again simul-climbing. The next and last pitch is a nice corner, rated 5.7.

That, dear readers, is how we got up the Angel food wall. I have decided to call our mongrel route “Group Tunnel Grope” because we started on Group Therapy, finished on Tunnel Vision, and generally groped around in between.

At the top Johnny took and promised to send me a pic of Luke holding Tori. I think she has the hots for him.

The “walk off” descent, lots of scrambling and boulder hopping, really beat up my ancient joints. So I am hobbling today, but I had sooo much fun climbing with Johnny and Luke. They are great climbers and good companions. I wouldn't have missed the Trundlebum Traverse for anything.

Photos from top: Long shadows of early morning at the parking lot; Tori and her heart throb Luke at the top of the Angel Food Wall. Both photos by Johnny Ray.

Evicted.

2008-02-27T12:56:00.003-05:00

Wednesday, February 27. Well, not really. But a few days ago I did get a notice on conspicuous blue paper taped up at my site at the Red Rock campground informing me that I would have to vacate the premises by 11 a.m. on February 27th. As I knew, there is a 14 day limit on stays, and mine would be up on the 27th. The notice emphasized that this limit is imposed by a nation-wide, not local, rule and that no exceptions could be made, not even in the interest of raising money to cover operating costs when (as now) the campground is mostly empty. In my former life, I represented the U.S. Department of the Interior in court, so I well know how inflexible its bureaucracy can be. I would have to move. But where?

A couple of local climbers very kindly offered to put me up. But Ezzy and I have gotten to like being on our own. I checked out the nearby Bonnie Springs motel, which gets decidedly mixed reviews on Mountain Project. Visions of a real bed, hot bath and cable TV danced in my head. But $65 per night, going up to $85 on the weekend, seemed a bit steep. So, I drove by the BLM visitor center to inquire if there were another camp ground nearby. There isn’t. But a helpful fellow explained that “dispersed camping” is allowed about 30 miles away in Lovell Canyon on the Tolyobe National Forest. There are no fees, no facilities and (I suppose) no cigarettes (apologies to Roger Miller). One can just camp along the dead end road leading in. I hopped into Ezzy to check it out.

I saw neither people nor vehicles on the first ten or so miles of canyon road. We turned around when the road got rough as it crossed a flood wash and passed a well-tended memorial, complete with cross, balloons and mementoes, to a girl named Danica who apparently died there at age 15 exactly two years earlier to the day. Drowning in a flash flood? Dehydration? Teen age car wreck? Foul play?

I have two daughters who were high school teenagers not so many years ago. I love them with all my heart. Imagine how sad it was for me to read the words "Danica - Daddy's Girl" on the rock below her cross. When I first saw the memorial on the second anniversery of Danica's death, there were brand new ballons and flowers there. Danica is still very much loved. I hope her loving ones won't mind my sharing her canyon for a few days.

I found two or three likely camping spots about three miles in. So, this morning I packed everything into Ezzy and left the RR campground for the last time. Tonight we’ll set up at one of the spots in Lovell canyon. I expect the stars will be brilliant, far from the lights of Las Vegas that light up the sky at the RR campground.

My left calf continues to be a real problem. It has not gotten appreciably better, so I did no climbing yesterday and will rest again today. I am planning to climb with Johnny and a friend of his on Thursday. We may do a little sport climbing, which will be a first for me. Assuming my calf survives, Marc and I will climb on Saturday.

Tunnel Vision -- Not an Epic

2008-02-26T12:39:00.004-05:00

Monday, February 25. This morning George, a young local climber, and I set out to do Tunnel Vision, a six pitch climb on the Angel Food Wall. George works as a lead rigger for the Cirque du Soleil (sp?). He has a lot of experience working with ropes and has trained to handle emergencies. As you will read, his experience and training came in handy.

Tunnel Vision is an unusual route, having several tight chimneys and a tunnel, that’s right, a tunnel, that goes behind an enormous flake and exits on a different part of the face. The approach hike is short but steep and rugged in places, not the best for my bad calf, which seems to hurt most when I’m walking to and from the climbs. George had to wait frequently for the Relic to huff and puff his way to the roping-up spot.

I led the first two pitches, rated 5.7+ and 5.5, respectively, by the new Hendren Guidebook, which makes much of the “intimidating” hand traverse at the start of the first pitch. I found that section to be pretty easy, with good feet if you look for them. The second pitch had me grunting and groaning up an awkward chimney that ended in what I decided was a “wedge belay.” I clipped two bolts and then wedged myself into the chimney to belay George up with my feet against one side and my butt against the other. Uugghh.

Pitch three was George’s lead. It goes about 60 feet up a very narrow squeeze chimney with sparse protection and then exits left and up into a corner with a layback on a long flake. Although it carries the same 5.7+ rating as does the first pitch, it looked harder to me. The tightness of the chimney reminded me of that day a lifetime ago when Lois got her helmet stuck on the top pitch of High Corner at the Gunks. That girl can cuss! George worked his way up the chimney, managing a few creative placements deep in the back.

He exited up into the start of the corner where he placed a cam that would soon prove its worth. As he moved up into the layback, his foot slipped off a rounded hold. Not having anything solid for his hands, he fell about 25 feet back into the tight chimney, hitting both sides as he went down. The cam held, however, and my belay stopped him 30 or 40 feet above me.

His first words were, “My ankle feels funny.” His pants were also quite dramatically ripped. After a bit of discussion, we decided his ankle was in no shape to continue; we would retreat. I lowered him to me and climbed back up through the chimney to retrieve as much gear as possible. I got everything but the top cam. As I was down climbing, the belay rope, which had slid down the cliff, got stuck 30 feet below George. Now, I was stuck too, because the rope had to be freed before he could pay out any more of it to allow me to finish coming down out of chimney. As I was forming a plan to untie and climb down to reach George, he went into action. He tied off my belay so I could hang out of harms way in the chimney. Then he rigged a rappel, which he used to make a one-legged descent to the point of “great rope stuckedness” (as Pooh might have put it). He freed the rope after several minutes work, and prussicked back up to the belay, still with only one useful leg.

I was soon back down with George at the belay. We held our breath as I pulled the rope down through that top cam; one thing we did not need was another of the stuck ropes for which Red Rock is infamous. It came down free! George wrapped his ankle with tape and an ace bandage from my pack, and we made two rappels to the ground. Easy for me; not so much for George, who had to balance on one for most of the distance.

I offered to go for help to carry George out or to let him use me for a crutch, but he would have none of it. He toughed out the rough, often-steep trail back to his jeep. Only then did he concede enough to his injury to ask me to drive; the jeep has a standard transmission and his left ankle was not up to working the clutch. I left him with his wife at their condo with plans to get an X-ray to make sure his ankle is only sprained, not broken. Assuming he heals quickly, we are going to return to finish Tunnel Vision next Monday.

George’s handling of the fall and its aftermath impressed me greatly. He kept his cool head, solved several problems and toughed out what must have been a very painful walk out. Thanks to him, our adventure on Tunnel Vision was “Not an Epic.” I’ll climb with him anytime.

Tuesday, February 26. I spoke to George this morning. His ankle is only sprained. We're hoping to get back to Tunnel Vision next Monday.

Photos from top: George; George leading the tight chmney; same; George after his fall working to free our stuck rope; George rappelling on one leg; Tori examining the injury (she has nursing training, you know).

Grand Canyon

2008-02-24T17:22:00.008-05:00

Saturday, February 23. Due to a combination of weather and my injured left calf muscle, which is healing a lot more slowly than I had hoped, I have done no climbing since Monday’s ascent of Rawlpindi (sic). Grrrrr! I am having a pretty good time, nonetheless. I’ve had a chance to learn more about Red Rock Canyons, and to see a bit of the Southwest, a part of the country in which I have spent very little time.

On Wednesday evening I went to the meeting of the Las Vegas climbers’ coalition, a group of local climbers who are working to protect and improve climbing opportunities in the area. Most of the discussion focused on how the upcoming Red Rock Rendezvous, which will attract perhaps a thousand climbers over a long weekend in late March, can be used to educate climbers as to the importance of “leaving no trace” or at least minimizing their impact on the Red Rock environment. In particular, human waste (urine and feces) has become a problem in some very popular areas. The coalition plans to organize removal efforts and to conduct an education effort at its Rendezvous booth. The discussion was a good reminder to me to make sure to leave as little trace as possible as I pass through climbing areas.

The meeting also gave me a chance to meet in the flesh some of the local climbers I have gotten to know through the internet. Johnny Ray and Matt McMurray were there. I have plans to climb with both. I met and talked to several others, including Killis, who has created a bit of a stir on the internet with his opposition to the practice of leaving draws on sport routes being “worked.” I was glad of the chance to meet these folks and to get some sense of the climbing community here.

I decided to use Thursday and Friday to rest my leg and make a trip to the Grand Canyon, something I had never seen. At Johnny Ray’s urging I visited Christmas Tree Pass on the way, a side trip that required Ezzy to carry me over about 40 miles of rough but passable dirt roads. It was quite an adventure; the only other vehicles we saw were off road jeeps and ATV’s. But Ezzy handled the washboards, rocks and pot holes like a Hummer. The pass itself is a beautiful pocket of evergreen trees in this desert landscape.

We arrived at the Grand Canyon about an hour before dark: just time enough to find the South rim and scurry from one vantage point to the next snapping photos. None, however, do justice to the immensity and grandeur of the “big ditch.” Standing on the rim, I found it hard to believe it was real. Nothing I had previously seen comes close, not even Yosemite Valley: the depth of the empty space in front of my feet, the colors (reds, oranges, yellows, grays, black), the fantastic shapes of the rocks carved by the river, and the incomprehensible size. To complete the effect, the sun shone through small holes in the cloud cover, illuminating first one buttress and then another.

As dark fell I found a camp ground and figured out how to use my credit card to pay for a night’s stay ($15). Never paid that way before. There were a few inches of snow on the ground, due no doubt to the 7000 ft. elevation, and the storm clouds were thickening, so I picked a site near the plowed road. From there, if it snowed during the night, Ezzy would have less distance through which to struggle. I had left my stove at my Red Rock campground (the “Hosts” told me I had to leave something if I wanted to retain my site while I was away), so dinner was ham, cheese and salami sandwiches made from stuff purchased at the Grand Canyon Village.

I awoke to several inches of new white stuff. The clouds and falling snow obscured the canyon almost completely. The overlooks that yesterday had revealed thousand-foot drops and miles of sculpted cliffs now showed me only a few feet of rock disappearing into the mist. After being warned by a couple of Rangers that the South Rim road would be slippery and dangerous, Ezzy and I decided to take it. Being unable to climb, we needed some kind of an adventure. Ezzy handled the 20 miles of twisty, snow-covered road with aplomb, even passing some four wheel drive vehicles along the way.

We headed North-West over more snowy roads to Zion National Park. For many miles there were only two vehicles on the road: Ezzy and an 18 wheeler that followed us at a steady 300 yards behind for over hour. I think the driver figured that if there were a patch of particularly icy road ahead, we would slide off first, giving him a chance to slow and avoid a wreck. His concern was misplaced; we got to Zion without mishap. Given the weather and late hour, we drove through without stopping. I need to go back and really see the place properly. There is said to be terrific crack climbing there. The images I took away from yesterday’s quick look are of a narrow, sharply twisting road weaving among tall, red cliffs of cleanly fractured rock reaching up to a dark gray sky.

The surprise of the day came as we followed Interstate 15 back to Las Vegas from St.George, Utah. It runs through the Virgin River canyon, composed of mesas, ravines and cliffs of crumbly gray rock. Not much for climbing, but spectacular in their own way. I don’t think it is part of any National or even State park; it’s just there.

Toady was mostly sunny, an apparently perfect day for climbing. I had a plan to climb Dark Shadows, a very cool looking 5.8 in Pine Creek canyon, with Marc and Johnny. But it had rained a lot in the canyons yesterday and we adhered to the advice not to climb on the RR sandstone immediately after rain. The water weakens the rock, making holds liable to break. But it was frustrating to sit here in the sunshine not climbing. Maybe we were too conservative. I saw others climbing.

My next day to climb is Monday. I really want to have an ascent to report on Tuesday.

Rawlpindi

2008-02-19T17:24:00.004-05:00

Yesterday (Monday, February 18) I climbed again with Marc. We did a relatively new climb called Rawlpindi (sic), a 4 pitch 5.7 that ends at a two bolt anchor almost 600 feet above the canyon floor. The first two pitches go about 300 feet up a steep, narrow gully. I got to lead the first. I thought it was the better (more sustained) of the two. The third pitch was spectacular. It climbs 170 feet up a steep, thin face and ends in an airy hanging belay.

Marc kindly offered me the lead on pitch 3, and I said, “Sure” with more confidence than I felt. I organized our rack just the way I like it and moved up. None of the individual moves was hard, but the whole long face was quite thin, with none of the comfy, reassuring ledges I am used to at the Gunks. Many of the holds were those little ridges of sandstone I have not yet come to trust. They look and feel so fragile.

These factors, combined with a lot of exposure, had me concentrating hard on every move. I was in my own little world: just me, the rock, the gear I could place and the rope. It was leading at its best, at least for me. My brain is jumpy, always bouncing from one thought to another and on to a third or fourth. One of the attractions of climbing (as well as driving my race car or teaching a class) is the singular focus it imposes. The pitch ended in an exposed, hanging belay.

Marc did a very nice job leading our fourth and last pitch, another pretty thin face deal.

We rappelled off without incident, no small achievement at Red Rock where the cracks and knobs are famous for snagging rappel ropes and forcing unplanned, overnight bivouacs. Our descent took us into Pine Creek Canyon, where a pretty mountain stream provides enough moisture for a nice stand of pine trees. Quite a contrast to the scrubby desert vegetation in most of the rest of this area. I spent a lovely half our soaking in the mountain feel of the place while Marc explored up the canyon to scout out another climb in which he is interested.

My plan has been to climb every other day in order to give my old body a day to recover. But, I have managed to pull a muscle in my left calf and it feels like it is going to need an additional day off. I have had to postpone tomorrow’s planned trip to St. George Utah for sport climbing. Grrrrrr! Tori is distraught. She did not much fancy Rawlpindi: not enough bolts, and that hanging belay was not her thing.

I’ve now been on the road, living in Ezzy for a little over a week. So far, so good. Most things have worked out as I planned. The bed I built is great; I am keeping nice and warm and sleeping well each night. My Coleman stove heats dinner each night. I type these reports on days off while sitting in a big soft chair at Starbucks (where I can plug the old computer in to the AC power) and post them from the local climbing shop (Desert Rock Sports) which has free a free internet connection. Desert Rock, by the way, is a great place. A real climbing store, with tons of gear and friendly folks to help you. I shower at the local climbing gym. Life is good. But I do very much miss Lois, even though I talk to her via my cell phone at least once a day.

Photos from top: Approximate route of Rawlpindi; Bill leading pitch 3 (photo Marc Jensen); Marc following pitch 3; Two Canadian climbers at hanging belay on Birdland, the next route over (Photo Marc Jensen); Marc leading pitch 4; Pine Creek Canyon.

Johnny Vegas

2008-02-17T13:51:00.004-05:00

Wednesday night, my first in Red Rock, was cold and windy. To paraphrase an old Irish/Australian song,

Twenty-three hundred miles I come,
To freeze my ass like a climbing bum.

Someone later told me that winds of 78 miles an hour were recorded near here. My expedition parka barely kept me warm as I heated canned stew over my Coleman stove. I retreated quickly into Ezzy and spent a fitful night listening to the wind and feeling my little “home” lurch and rock as the gusts hit her. Next morning, I asked three climbers how it had been spending the night in tents. Two tried to put a good face on it saying it had been “OK.” The third just said, “It sucked.” What was it about this trip that had seemed to me like a good idea?

Despite the wind and still cold temps, I set out Thursday morning to hike in to the base of Johnny Vegas, a four pitch 5.7 that gets three stars in the Hendren guide.

Marc, a local climber I had met through MountainProject.com., and I planned to do it on Saturday. It would be my first Red Rock climb. I had been warned that the approaches and descents at RR can be hard to follow, so I thought I would prove to myself I could navigate around the place. And, I might try the first moves on Johnny just to bolster my climbing confidence.

Well, the expedition can best be described as a fiasco. I managed to lose my new guidebook, strain a muscle in my left calf, and bushwack around for several hours without finding the route. That night, despite somewhat diminishing winds, I was wondering if, maybe, I should just turn Ezzy around and head back east. I persevered, though, and spent Friday getting clean and nursing my injured leg. Saturday morning at 7:30, I met Marc. Fortunately, he knows the approach route, so we headed out to JV.

It was wonderful! Given my injury and misadventures two days before, I asked Marc to do the leading while I “Got used to the rock here.” He agreed. As I followed the second pitch, it hit me: this is just terrific! The sky was bright blue, the sun warm, the rock solid and clean, and the climbing pretty easy. I was ginning, thrilled to be a few hundred feet off the ground, surrounded by gorgeous cliffs and peaks (photos coming when I get back home), with my hands and shoes on the rock. While we were transferring gear on the second belay ledge, my cell phone (which I had forgotten to turn off) rang. It was my daughter Valerie calling to tell me she had read my blog. That was a first for me!

We finished JV without further phone calls or incident (except for repeated exclamations from me about how “wonderful” it all was), and continued on up the first pitch of Solar Slab, which I lead.

We rapped off down Solar Slab Gully, a popular decent route (Gunkies: think Madam G’s, but without the exposure). A party in front of us got their rope stuck, so I rapped down it, and with the aid of a prussic sling, contrived to get it free. In all a wonderful day, one of my best on the rock.

Marc is a great climbing partner, safe and fun. He and I plan to climb again on Monday. Today (Sunday) is rest day for the Old Relic. Gonna take a shower, hit the Laundromat and hope my aches and pains succumb to extra strength aspirin.

Photos from top: Early morning views of the Red Rock Canyons; Approximate route of Johnny Vegas; Bill at the second belay ledge on Johnny V; Bill leading first pitch of solar slab; Marc belaying. All but first three photos courtesy of Marc Jensen.

Go West, Old Man

2008-02-15T13:54:00.008-05:00

Red Rock Trip – Day 1

I am typing this at a picnic table in a KOA campground in Buffalo, Tennessee, 712 miles (by Ezzy’s odometer) from my house in Bethesda, MD. The trip so far has been smooth, Interstates all the way. I figure I have to make about 625 miles a day to get to Red Rock by Thursday evening, so I am a bit ahead of schedule.

The weather has been good: cold when I started (12 deg. F) but sun and blue skies most of the way here. I-81 took me southwest through the Shenandoah valley. Lots of fields and pastures covered with light brown grass and the occasional herd of cows. I think the black and white ones are the only truly bucolic ones; my wife disagrees.

Before I was really expecting it, one of those green highway signs announced the junction where I – 81 ends in I-40, the road I am now going to follow for all but the last 100 miles of the trip. It runs parallel to the path of the legendary Route 66. I was excited, both to be following the path of history and to be on my “road west.”

But, truth to tell, I didn’t see much of the country from the Interstate but a bunch of trucks (two hauling new Corvettes north to dealers), a couple of accidents, lots of cars and may road signs. Most of the signs just told me of places like the Davey Crocket Museum, Loretta Lynn’s family home and the Cumberland Gap, that I didn’t stop to visit. A few were intriguing. One advised that I was passing “Hungry Mother State Park.” Was it named for a voracious lady, or perhaps a mother bear with a big appetite for picnic hampers? I’d love to know. Another, on a stretch of road where the speed limit was 65, warned truckers that they must stay in the right lane unless they are going more than 65. Huh? Trucks are allowed to change lanes only when they break the speed limit? Go figure.

I don’t have internet access here, so I will have to wait at least a day to post this. Now, off to bed for my first night sleeping in Ezzy.

Photos from top: On the road at last, I-81 through Virginia; Sunset in Tennessee on the first day over a truck stop and the highway.

Red Rock Trip: Days 2 and 3.

Well, I made it! Wednesday night about 9 pm PDT, a day ahead of schedule. I drove about 850 miles on Tuesday and the same on Wednesday. The two days are a bit of a blur, so I’ll just relate some of the images that stuck.

Wednesday morning I drove for several hours through Eastern Oklahoma in hard, sometimes blinding rain surrounded by 18 wheelers. They get one's attention. There's a lot of freight moving west. By afternoon the rain stopped, the sky cleared and the horizon started getting farther and farther away. I saw a sign for Okemah, Oklahoma, Woody Guthrie’s sometime home; I had to stop. It’s a tiny, one street town on a cold, wind-blown hillside. There are a few newish buildings, including a large Ace hardware store. But many of the store fronts were probably there when Woody was. I drove through town on Main Street (it took about 4 minutes) and imagined a dust storm blowing in my face. I snapped a picture of an ancient Ford truck that could have come right out of Steinbekck’s Grapes of Wrath. I found a small park with a statue of Woody, a couple of murals and bricks with the names of many of his songs. More pictures; I’ll post some when I get home.

Well after dark Wednesday night I pulled into a campground in the Texas panhandle. When the sun woke me the next morning, I discovered just how flat the country there is and how huge are the Jackrabbits. I mistook one for a small deer until it started hopping away.

I have two things to say about NewMexico: the shapes and colors of the rocks are gorgeous, and there are too many signs along I-40 advertising casinos, trading posts, junk stores, etc. One proudly proclaimed that Joe’s (or whoever’s) trading post was “Not Just Another Hole In the Ground!” I didn’t stop. But even this advertising barrage could not obscure the beauty of the rock: bands of red, gold, brown, whate and gray.

Arizona provided much needed relief from the roadside adverts and some thrilling decents into valleys. As night fell, I was tired, but too close to Red Rock to want to stop for the night. With great anticipation but also a tinge of sadness, I left I-40 in western Arizona and turned on to US Route 93, the road that would take me about 100 miles to Las Vegas.

Signs warned that “all vehicles” must stop for a thorough security search at the Hoover Dam 90 miles ahead. Hoover Dam? I hadn’t even realized I needed to cross it. Of course I went into worry mode. This isn’t 1969, so I had no illegal substances on me or in Ezzy, but I could see all my carefully packed (well, packed anyway) gear blowing across a parking lot while a mean-looking officer with a gun watched me try to collect it. A guy like that ran me out of Reno while I was hitching across the county in 1972. But, when I stopped at the check point, a friendly young female police officer smiled, said “Hello,” shone her flashlight into Ezzy and toldmeto drive on. When am I going to stop assuming the worst?

Hoover Dam itself was surreal. Imagine: I am driving tired through the darkness, having reached that trance-like state that comes at the end of long trips. Bright flood lights appear ahead, the road dives down aseriesof 15 mph hairpin turns carved out of the rock and huge metal and concrete structures appear around me. I had driven down into a 1930’s, art deco vision of the future. I got to see everything except the dam itself (I drove across the top).

After navigating Route 215 through/around Las Vegas, I found the Red Rock campground, figured out how to check in and went to bed in Ezzy. I am here!

Note for Annie and Jean: Tori says hi. She says the cross county trip was not quite as bad as she thought it would be, but she is dubious about this trad climbing stuff we are going to do. She was a bit disappointed we did not stop to shop at the trading posts in New Mexico, but she was glad I took a shower at the climbing gym yesterday. She is hoping I relent and we go sport climbing. Problem is, I can't climb 5.11 and 5.12 like she can. Oh well. She'll have to suck it up on Johnny Vegas tomorrow.

Photos from top: First 3 - Okemah and the Woody Guthrie Memorial; Next 3 - Sunrise over the Texas Campground, House and buildings next to the campground; Texas Panhandle is flat; Bottom - Sunrise over the Red Rock Campground.

The Night Before

2008-02-09T16:40:00.000-05:00

Sunday February 10, 2008. Tomorrow Ezzy the minivan and I start for Red Rock. From Washington D.C., we’ll take I-81 to Tennessee and from there, I 40 to Nevada. My month-long cross country climbing adventure is finally going to happen! The preparations are made. I’ve packed all the gear on my 7 page list, studied and re-studied the guidebooks, selected likely climbs, arranged via the internet to climb with half a dozen kind folks, and picked out the novels and CDs to bring. I’ve even located campgrounds all along the route and arranged to bring along Tori, the 6 inch tall climber girl doll who belongs to my good friends Jean and Annie.

I’m relieved finally to be going. It’s time. The preparations that intrigued and amused me for much of the last two months have become tiresome. The tipping point is here: enough with the preparation, I want to be doing. I am ready to get on the road, and even readier to get my hands on Red Rock sandstone.

I’m excited at the prospect of an adventure the likes of which I haven’t had in many years. Driving cross country is something I thought I had left behind in 1973 when I started law school. It’s tied up in my mind with all the epic travels of American history, from Lewis and Clark finding their way to the Pacific Northwest and the wagon trains of settlers crossing the plains, to the Okies packing their jalopies to head west out of the dust bowl to the “Garden of Eden” they thought they would find in California and life “On the Road” as chronicled by Jack Kerouac. I won’t be hitching (unless, of course, Ezzy breaks down), or walking or driving a wagon. But I still feel some connection with all the continent-crossers who’ve gone before.

And the climbing! I’m planning to spend a little over two weeks climbing those beautiful, long trad routes I’ve been reading about all winter: Johnny Vegas, Birdland, Solar Slab, and more. Some are over 1000 feet long. I haven’t spent as much time climbing continuously or climbed routes as long or exciting since 1972, my last summer in Yosemite. As recently as two years ago I could not have imagined making this trip. Now it’s about to happen.

As the moment to begin arrives, however, so do doubts. Some are trivial or silly. Will I be able to sleep in the bed I built into Ezzy? Can I find campgrounds? Others seem more serious. Can I really climb those routes I’ve been studying? Will I get along with my climbing partners? Can I stay awake to drive 6-700 miles a day? None of these doubts is rational: I have good reason to believe I can do all of the things I’m planning. Nothing I am going to do on this trip is as implausible as it was for me to take my race car out on the track for the first time or to go to the Gunks with daughter Karen to lead a climb for the first time in 35 years. I was right to doubt my ability to do those things. But everything I am expecting to do on this trip is a reasonable extension of what I have been doing for the last 18 months.

Having a solid basis for confidence reassures me at a rational, decision-making level. But at a deeper, more primitive place in my psyche, it doesn’t seem to matter. That child-like part persists, despite all contrary evidence, in claiming that I will fail. It tends to emerge shortly before any stressful activity: taking a final exam, trying a case in court, lecturing before a large audience, taking a climbing trip. Last night it reared up in the form of a dream in which I was back practicing law, trying but failing to get things ready for a big case.

Does everyone have such a doubting place? Maybe. Mountaineer Joe Simpson, author of Touching the Void and The Beckoning Silence, describes his as a hooded crow that perches on his shoulder at night whispering doubts. But, it’s hard to imagine William the Bastard lying sleepless, tormented by self doubt, the night before he crossed the Channel to conquer England in 1066, or Napoleon having a crisis of confidence before he launched the invasion of Russia (although, as it turned out, he had reason to fear the outcome).

In any event, I’ve learned from years of experience that the antidote for my doubts is action. Once engaged in the task, whatever it is, I focus on the reality of what I am doing and my ability to do it. The irrational doubts recede. I’ll be OK once I get on the road and even better once I get my hands and feet on sandstone.

Yesterday, as I was sitting in my favorite chair re-reading an article in Alpinist magazine about the climbing history of Cannon Cliff in New Hampshire, another emotion hit me: loneliness. I’ll miss that comfy seat, the view into the trees out my back windows and my little orange cat, MARRS. But most of all, I will miss my wife Lois terribly. The month I will be gone on this trip will be the longest period we have been apart in 32 years of marriage. She is everything. I must see her, talk to her and to touch her. No experience is real until I tell her about it. My day isn’t complete until I’ve heard about hers. There is so much that I share only with her; so many parts of me that only she knows, that only she can understand. I have a cell phone and will call her as often as possible. But it won’t be the same as being with her.

I am planning to post occasional reports on my trip to this blog. So, my computer connections willing, there may be updates here if you care to check back.

Photographs (from the top): Ezzy in forn of our house; Ezzy almost all loaded to go; My home ofr a month; MARRS; Lois.

Freedom of the Hills

2008-02-06T17:37:00.000-05:00

The slightly paunchy, sixty-ish man and the tall, attractive woman young enough to be his daughter walked into the REI store and looked around. She seemed impatient; he, apprehensive. They wandered around until they found the rock climbing equipment. As the man was tentatively looking the gear over, feeling the ropes, poking at the carabineers and nuts, and glancing furtively at the cams locked away in a glass case, a sales person asked what they were looking for. “Well, we need a climbing rope,” the man said. “11 millimeters thick and 150 feet long.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But the thickest they come, is 10.5 mm. And we measure the length in meters these days, not feet. Will you want a wet or dry rope?”
Looking a bit confused, the man replied, “Dry, I guess. We’re not going to use it on a glacier.”
“What kind of climbing are you going to be doing?” asked the salesman with a slightly dubious frown.
“Rock climbing.”
“Yes, but what kind? Sport or trad.”
Now the paunchy man looked really puzzled. “Sport or trad? What’s the difference?”

* * *

And that is how I got my first inkling of the wonderful branches of climbing that have developed in the 35 years I was away from the sport. The confused man was I and the young woman, my daughter Karen. We were shopping for gear for our planned trip to the Gunks. It would be her first time climbing outdoors and my return to the cliffs after 35 years on the couch. I feared, when we entered the store that, if our inexperience with modern climbing and gear were revealed, we might be deemed “unsafe at any cliff” and not be allowed to buy gear. I was wrong, of course, not having counted on the power of the profit motive. Despite my display of ignorance, the salesman helped us select a rope, biners, nuts, and (expensive) cams, and wished us good luck at the Gunks. He must have thought we were going to need it.

Our trip, about which you can read below in the article entitled “Return to Easy Overhang,” was successful (i.e., we climbed some easy routes, had a great time, and avoided any epics). I have done quite a bit of climbing since, and learned in the process not only that there is now a difference between “trad” and “sport” climbing, but also that there are indoor climbing gyms where some folks spend all their climbing time; “pad people” who never use ropes, but carry mattresses around to cushion their falls off incredibly hard boulder problems; and climbing competitions where male and female world champions are crowned. There is even competitive ice climbing. There are speed records for the quickest ascent of classic routes like the Nose on El Cap. Just today I learned there are two such records for the North Face of the Eiger. One is for ascent by a team, the other for a solo ascent. Solo up the Eiger?!

This eruption of diversity since my first climbing life ended in 1972 means there is a niche for virtually anyone who is at all interested in climbing. But I find myself attracted most strongly to trad. Perhaps that attraction stems simply from the fact that today’s trad climbing is the form most like the rock climbing I did long ago. Or, maybe I take refuge in trad because I can’t climb anything very hard. Bouldering is about nothing but climbing hard rock. In sport climbing the protection is already there, so it too is mostly about how hard one can climb. But trad climbing offers many elements to distract attention from pure climbing ability: route finding, gear placement, anchor building, rappelling, self rescue techniques, etc. Maybe I like trad because all this ancillary stuff distracts from my inability to lead much harder than 5.7.

As I have thought about my affinity for trad climbing, though, I think there is another, deeper explanation. I learned much of my climbing from reading and re-reading the first two editions of Mountaineering, the Freedom of the Hills, the climbing text put out by the Mountaineers of Seattle. Learning the techniques, skills and judgments of mountaineering, that book explained, is essential to gain the freedom to travel safely and reliably in the hills (i.e., mountains):

Freedom of the hills lies largely in the ability of a party, whatever the size,
to handle every problem of travel and living [in the mountains], including
emergencies, with nothing more than the members can carry conveniently on their
backs, using their physical resources and the knowledge and judgment they have
gained through experience.”

That is what I want, what I have wanted since I was 14 years old: the ability to travel and cope in the mountains, and to rely on myself to do it effectively and safely.

It was a summer day in 1971, the first I ever spent in Yosemite Valley. Two friends and I had just arrived and did a very easy 3 pitch climb. The guidebook described a walk-off descent, but somehow we got off-route and wound up stuck on a ledge a couple of hundred feet above the Valley floor. I started to get worried, thinking we wouldn’t be able to get down and might have to be rescued. Oh, the ignominy! Then, a strange thing happened: I thought to myself, “No, we’ll be alright because I’m here, and I’ll be able to figure some way out of this.” I did. I rigged a tension traverse that got us over to another ledge system which we could down-climb.

I can’t recall ever having had that “it’s-alright-because-I’m-here” feeling before that day, but I have had it since and it feels very good. Trad climbing allows me to recapture that feeling of being able to rely on myself and my partners to surmount a natural obstacle, the cliff, and deal efficiently and safely with emergencies that may arise without outside assistance. I want to be the one to find the route, place the protection, build the anchor, watch the weather, decide when to push on or to turn back, and cope with emergencies. In short, I want to keep on earning the freedom of the hills.

I do not mean to suggest that trad climbing is in any way ”better” than bouldering, or sport or gym climbing, or competition. Each has its own fascination. I greatly admire the athletic ability and determination of the sport climbers and boulderers. There is something pure and exciting about climbing the very hardest routes, making the most athletic moves. I could never match the difficulty of the climbs they do. But for me, for reasons tied up with my history and personality, trad is special because it is about the freedom of the hills.

Silliness at Verizon Center

2008-01-26T22:32:00.000-05:00

There appears to be nothing too silly for intermission at an NBA basketball game. If you can imagine it, the Washington Wizards will do it.

I’m 60 years old. My first experiences of professional sporting events came when my Dad and Mom took me and my sister to Yankee Stadium to watch the Bronx Bombers, late 50s – early 60s edition, march through the American League on their way to another World Series victory under the leadership of the Ol’ Perfesser, Casey Stengle. Taking me to those games was a significant sacrifice for my Father. Although we lived in suburban New Jersey, he had grown up in Massachusetts a committed Red Sox fan. He once gave in to my pleas and read me an entire book about the history of the Yankees. But, he so hated the New York team that every time he book used the word “Yankees,” Dad substituted “Oompahs.”

Fine, you say. But, what does this drivel about baseball in the 60s have to do with silliness at NBA games? Read on impatient one, and you shall learn.

Baseball at Yankee Stadium in those days was a solemn affair. The sport was the National Pastime. The Yankees were its Gods. The “House that Ruth Built,” its temple. The grass was green, the stands were grey, and in center field, right there on the playing surface, stood tombstone-like monuments to departed deities: Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio. There were no dancing girls, not even any ball-girls. There were the umpires, dressed all in Navy blue as befits any self respecting ump, the grounds crew, the bat boys, and of course the ballplayers. No one else; whom else did we need?

As game time approached, the Yankees would take the field in their ever so dignified uniforms: white with Navy blue pin strips, the reverse of the uniform worn by the Wall Street bankers and lawyers who made up much of their fan base. (The blue collar guys had mostly been fans of the Giants or Dodgers, and were in mourning because those teams had betrayed them for filthy lucher on the West Coast.)

Once the Star Spangled Banner had been sung, the stately tones of Bob Sheppard, the Yankees’ PA announcer, echoed through the half empty stands, “Leading off and playing second base for the Boston Red Sox, Pete Runnels” (or whoever it was). And that was it. No fireworks, fancy introductions, mascot antics, or contests. Just a simple announcement of the name of the first batter. It was, after all, a baseball game we had come to see, not a vaudeville act or a circus.

And what games they were! We saw Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris hit homers in 1961, the year that Maris broke the Babe’s record. Tony Kubeck and Bobby Richardson turned double plays right in front of us. The “little lefthander” Whitey Ford struck men out. One day we sat in the right field stands quite close to where Yogi Berra, on a rest day from catching, was playing the outfield. My sister fell in love with him.

Yesterday, my daughter Valerie took me to a Washington Wizards basketball game. She and I go back to the days when the Wizards were still called the Bullets. When she was a little girl, we sat on a love seat in the kitchen after dinner and watched them play on TV. Those were the days of Juwan Howard, Chris Webber and George Muresan, the ungainly, odd-looking 7 foot 7 inch giant who played center. They had a couple of good seasons, and Val became particularly fond of Big George. We went to occasional games back then; more recently Val has taken me to several Washington Nationals baseball games. These trips have taught me that professional sporting events are no longer the somber, almost holy rituals of my youth. There is a certain amount of “entertainment” in addition to the game itself: the Nationals amuse us with racing Presidential mascots and the like. But nothing prepared me for what I saw and heard at last night’s basketball game.

We got there early. As we took our seats in the almost empty arena (named of course, not for the team, but rather after Verizon, the sponsor that had bought the “naming rights”), the faces of two insufferably perky twenty-somethings, a boy with stylish hair and a grinning blond girl, appeared on the giant TV screen hanging over the court. She was holding a microphone and babbling about the “Parent Makeover.” She had cornered to two reluctant gentlemen and was insisting that they put on various pieces of Wizards apparel (game jerseys, hats, sweats, etc.) and jump around like fools (while being shown on the giant, in-house TV screen) to prove they had as much “Wizard Spirit” as their (probably mortified) children. Neither fellow got into the spirit of it. Whom they had pissed off to deserve this treatment I could not say, but it must have been someone awfully important.

As Val and I were shaking our heads over this spectacle, a flying mini-van appeared! It made a slow circumnavigation of the arena. Then, apparently liking what it saw, continued to take laps. I suppose it was intended to advertize something; geniuses, these admen. But, I mean, what does a flying mini-van have to do with a basketball game? Everything, apparently, because the thing made numerous reappearances during the evening. (If anyone reading this ever meets Ezzy, my mini-van, you must be careful not to mention the flying van. I have enough trouble satisfying her demands to be taken out on the racetrack as a reward for pulling the race car and trailer. I can’t afford to pay for her to learn to fly.) After witnessing this aeronautical marvel, all I could suggest to Val was that we go get something to eat. She agreed, and bought me my dinner.

As we regained our seats, the floor filled with smoke, the lights dimmed, strobes flashed and music thundered. I expected at least the reincarnation of Paul Revere’s horse (apologies to Bob Dylan), if not the Second Coming. I was a tad disappointed when an over–excited voice intoned, “Yooouuurrr Waaashiiiingtoooon Wiiiizaaaards” and 11 tall guys dressed in white underwear trotted out. At least they were wearing the home whites and not the gold shirts with black shorts that make them look like a rec league team.

Just as I was settling down to concentrate on the first quarter action, some fool coach called a timeout, which afforded the blond girl the opportunity to inflict “Smile Cam” on the assembly. She instructed that the fan caught on camera with the “best” smile would be rewarded with a prize. It being “H & R Block Tax Preparation Night” at the old gym (sure glad I didn’t miss that one), the prize would be a certificate to have your taxes done for you. (Nothing about them being paid for you, though. Damn!) So, while several thousand eager taxpayers did their best imitation of Ronald McDonald, the camera panned the stands and projected their hideous grins onto the giant screen. Finally, Blondie picked a winner, he was given his much coveted tax certificate, and the basketball game was permitted to resume.

Next up we had “Dance Cam.” Yeah, it’s what you think. The camera pans the crowd looking for the best dancer, who won some prize or other. That really wasn’t so bad. Some of the kids, at least, looked really cute dancing. A fat guy won the prize. He could make his body go one way and his belly, go the other.

After a brief interruption for basketball, Blondie got back to work. The giant TV showed her shoving the microphone in the face of a big fellow slouching on a couch. It seems this piece of home furnishing is called the “Budweiser couch” (no one should be without one). With the unerring instinct of a Washington Post reporter tracking down a political scandal, Blondie asked the guy, “How did you get to sit on the Budweiser Couch?” She seemed at a loss, however, when all he said in answer was, “Drank a lotta Bud Lite.” A sudden resumption of basketball spared us most of her pained silence.

In the fourth quarter, as the game got close and the tedium of watching the players run, pass, dribble and shoot was becoming more than most in attendance could tolerate, Blondie came again to our rescue. She announced “KISSING CAM.” I wish I were making this up. If I were, I wouldn't make up this part. I'd jsut tell you the fianl score and be done wiith it. But Kisssing Cam really happened. She offered another prize, this one for the couple who did the best kissing while the panning camera was on them. We were treated to pecks on the cheek, decorous kisses on the lips, passionate embraces, and full tongue-in-the-mouth action. A young man and woman, who Blondie said were on their first date (how does she know these things?), refused to kiss at all. But they turned a lovely pink as they sat staring forward for what seemed like an hour with the camera on them. Who won the prize? How could you possibly care?

There was more silliness, but I was too numb to remember it. I do know that the Wizards won, holding off a late rally by the Memphis Grizzlies. And Val and I had a terrific time watching the game, laughing at the “entertainment” and chatting about this and that. Afterwards, she drove me home. I love having adult daughters.

Getting Ready for Red Rock

2008-01-22T17:58:00.000-05:00

O. K. Bill, we’re going to do this one straight. None of that supposedly “funny” stuff you usually try to write. Just a nice, simple account of the progress you’re making getting ready for the trip to Red Rock. You are making progress aren’t you? We know all about those plans of your: building the bed for that beat up old van, digging all that camping junk out of the basement; lining up climbing partners, getting in climbing shape, blah, blah, blah. Well, have you got anything done? As for the climbing, old man, what makes you think you are going to be able to get up, much less lead, those long “moderates” you’ve been drooling over in the guidebook? They are pretty high and look awfully steep.

Who is that guy? And why does he bug me so? Seems like he follows me almost everywhere I go. When he’s not pointing out what I’ve messed up or haven’t got done, he’s telling me what will go wrong and what I can’t do right. Does everybody have one of those fellows riding around in his head? Oh hell, who knows?

Any way, buddy, I have gotten a lot done for my trip, thank you! I’ve lined up several climbing partners; and identified likely routes that don’t look too hard and get sun most of the day. I’ve made lists of the gear and stuff I will need to take, and am assembling it. You know you’re going to forget something you need, dummy. Probably, but I can always buy it once I get there. Las Vegas may not be civilization, but it does have stores, including Desert Rock Sport, said to be a fine climbing store.

Ezzy (the minivan) and I will take the Southern route: down Interstate 81 and then across I-40. There appears to be a good supply of campgrounds along I-40 that are open year round. The trip ought to take about 4 days. Leaving bright and early on February 11th, we should arrive at the Red Rock campground late Thursday, affording one day to get oriented before my first climbing appointment. Yeah, but what if that old heap of junk minivan breaks down? It’s pretty much a wreck. Well, I guess we’ll just deal with that if and when it happens. Ezzy has been to the car hospital where my racing buddy Ed York (an outstanding and honest mechanic) gave her a once over, repaired her front suspension (which has been making funny noises for about 5 years), and put new shoes on her. I’ll bring the auto tool kit, floor jack and jumper cables. I’ve got my cell phone. We’ll cope.

Today I built the bed and installed it into Ezzy. You really think you’re gonna be able to sleep in that thing? I don’t see why not. I’ll just drive until I am really tired and then ..... ZZZZZ. The bed is very narrow and the van will be cold at night. That “southern” route of yours doesn’t exactly run through the tropics. Hah, I got that covered. My old Eddie Bauer -20 deg. down bag is going to make a reappearance, along with a Dacron bag. If they aren’t enough, my old expedition Parka is coming too. I’ll be drowning in fluff. And you really think that bed is wide enough? For a person who can sleep each night wedged into a 12 inch space between his wife and his cat, the bed will be plenty big.

The kitchen is shaping up. I dug out the old Coleman camp stove and bought some new gas cylinders for it. I got a really cute little tea kettle and a Melita funnel and filters so I can make the essential morning cups of coffee. Add in some pots, plates, a cup and a bowl and food making is taken care of. The first aid kit is restocked. Good. Probably going too need that puppy. Hope you have lots of stuff for aching muscles, sore joints and sprained ankles. Oh, shut up!

What about the conditioning program? How’s that coming? Truth to tell, it’s not coming so well. It was doing OK in December and early January. Week before last I climbed 4 times, twice outdoors (we had some really warm weather here near Washington D.C. Hard to understand why with the candidates and their hot air all in Iowa, but we did). Then I got sick and have been house-bound for the last 10 days. Gonna try back at the gym tomorrow, so we’ll see. But I should be totally recovered well before leaving for Red Rock.

What makes you think that, at your age (60 years) and having been out of climbing for 35 years, you have any business trekking all the way across the county to climb 1000 foot cliffs in Nevada? Are you nuts? Probably. But this trip to Red Rock is certainly no less reasonable than was that day in the Gunks 18 months ago when I did my first trad lead in 35 years. Indeed, since then I have worked back up to where I am leading 5.7 at the Gunks, at Seneca and on Cathedral Ledge in New Hampshire. Those areas have pretty stiff ratings. If I can lead 5.7 there, I should be able to climb it at Red Rock. Anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Good luck, you’re going to need it! Thanks, I guess.

Rock Climber Girl

2008-01-19T10:30:00.000-05:00

I stumbled on a blog called "Rock Climber Girl" the other day and found it quite interesting. There are entertaining trip reports (including one about Red Rock, where I am about to go) and gear reviews, as well as thoughtful pieces about life and climbing, for example one about the vicissitudes of roping up with your lover. But I liked best the way RCG infuses the stories with her personality and perspective. It gave me a window into another's delightful view of climbing and life.

Of course, I found some of that view perplexing. Climber Girl devotes a whole article to the best way of "de-funkifying" (getting the stink out of) synthetic climbing garments. Now, why would anyone want to do that? In the summer of 1972 I proudly wore the same shirt for about 45 days straight while climbing in Yosemite. The fouler the better was my mantra. With apologies to TM Herbert, "I started climbing when men smelled like men, and we nailed 5.8." Of course, when I tried to hitch-hike back east, all my rides were really short. Hmmm? Is it a female thing, this focus on odor? No. I don't remember even the few girl climbers back in the day getting touchy about olfactory issues. It must be something that intruded into the sport, like sticky rubber, cams and "sport" climbing, while I was away for 35 years.

Now wait a minute, Bill. Perhaps there is something to be learned here. Is it just possible that, if you smelled better, you could actually climb and not have to aid 5.8 or .9 or .10? Is a "fresh clean scent" the real secret to "sending" 5.12c? Not likely, but who knows? I think I am going to take some clean shirts with me to Red Rock in February, shower regularly at the local rock gym (for a samll fee, says the guidebook) and see if it helps. Watch this space for a full report.

Kidding aside, I really enjoyed Rock Climber Girl. Check it out at www.rockclimbergirl.com.

Fun Hog Trip to Red Rock Canyon

2008-01-02T21:39:00.000-05:00

According to Susan Schwartz in “Into the Unknown,” her biography of Hans Kraus, it was Kraus who persuaded Jim McCarthy (my first climbing hero) not to become a climbing bum, but instead to go to law school. McCarthy went on to become a successful New York litigator and President of the American Alpine Club. Schwartz writes about this episode as another of Kraus’ many fine achievements. But, when I read about it, I wasn’t so sure he gave Jim the right advice.

Like McCarthy, I climbed at the Gunks in the 60s. Unlike him, I wasn’t very good at all. While he was putting in new 5.10s, I was falling off Moonlight; it’s a 5.6, thank you. Also like McCarthy, I went to law school. I did a lot of litigation, married Lois (the best bear), own the house in the burbs and three (old) cars, and raised two terrific young women, Valerie and Karen. Climbing got lost along the way, returning to my life only in the summer of 2006 (see “Return to Easy O” under December on this blog). But I never quite shook an idea that had snuck into my head at some point between 1965 and 1970: it would be cool to be a climbing bum.

In the late 70s (before kids) Lois and I talked about taking a year off from jobs and driving down the Pan American Highway. We got the idea from an old article in the American Alpine Journal written, if memory serves, by Yvon Chouinard and entitled “The First Annual Fun Hog Expedition to Patagonia.” Chouinard and three other climbers (I think Tom Frost may have been one) loaded up a Red VW Micro Bus (was there any other possible vehicle in the 60s?) with all their “play” gear and drove from California to the tip of South America, “hogging as much fun as possible” along the way. Once at the tip, they spent a month playing cards in a Patagonian ice cave waiting for a break in the weather. When it came, they ran up some jutting tooth of shear rock in a couple of days, packed up their stuff and drove home, hogging still more fun. Lois and I were never up to climbing one of those rock fangs in Patagonia, but the idea of skiing, swimming, biking, climbing and sightseeing all the way down and back appealed to us greatly. We even bought a big, brown Chevy van and built a bed and closets into it in anticipation of the trip. We called her “Sweet Rotunda” after a Song of that name by Tom Rush (“Sweet Rotunda, you haul your ashes, Babe, and I’ll haul mine”).

But there never seemed to be a good time to quit our jobs. The trip was postponed and finally abandoned. Rotunda sat in our suburban car port decaying from disuse. We finally had to give her to a fellow who did some work on our house in return for his hauling her away. I don’t think he ever did get her running.

It seems, however, that my desire to be a climbing bum, or at least to travel around in a van and go climbing, didn’t die with Rotunda. Now that I have retired, the little monster has poked his head up again. And, why not? Karen and Valerie are on their own, Lois is supportive (but her job prevents her coming), and I have time. I even have a van, or at least a mini-van. Her name is Esmeralda (“Ezzie” to her friends) and she is 12 years old. She took us on family vacations. Each of my daughters learned to drive in her, and each used her for transportation in high school. When they went to college, I converted her into the tow vehicle for my race car. Now she is about to begin yet another new life.

I think it was Richard, a very experienced Gunks hard man, who first suggested climbing at Red Rock. He said that, although the rock is sandstone, the climbing is in some ways similar to the Gunks, but with much longer moderate routes. My friends Jean and Annie also spoke of climbing there and seemed to have liked it. In any event, as the weather in the Northeast got cold and snowy, I began to think of making a trip to some warmer place. (I also thought about doing some ice climbing, but that's another story.) I investigated Red Rock and learned that the temperatures, while not really warm, appear quite climbable in February. There are a lot of multi-pitch trad routes in the 5.6 to 5.8 range. I’ve worked my way up to leading 5.7 at Seneca and the Gunks, so there should be stuff I can do. I was sold!

Now, I suppose that to be a real climbing bum, I should just throw gear and some clothes into a pack (it would have to be an old-style external frame deal; I don’t have one of the new, spiffy ones I see at the Gunks these days), walk out to the D.C. Beltway (I-495) and stick out my thumb. I did hitch to Yosemite back in the day. But I am not ready to be that authentic. So instead, I am going to build a small bed into Esmeralda and outfit her with a couple of sleeping bags, my old propane stove, some cooking gear purloined from the kitchen, and other odds and ends. Starting about February 10th, I’ll head for Las Vegas and the Red Rock Canyons, planning to climb there from February 16th through March 2nd.

I’ve acquired a couple of guidebooks, including the apparently encyclopedic new Handren guide. I’ve picked out some routes that look good. They get sun most of the day so they should be reasonably warm, are multi-pitch and look to be easy enough for me to handle.

My regular climbing partners all have to work for a living (bummer for them), so I will be going alone. I’ve read that Red Rocks can be a tough place to meet partners on the spur of the moment. So, I’ve been working the internet to find some folks to climb with. If you asked me what is the biggest difference between climbing in the 60s and climbing now, I would say the internet as a means of finding climbers. It is wonderful. Since starting up climbing again, I’ve connected through the internet with at least ten climbing partners and in each instance the experience has been excellent. Three folks have already agreed to climb with me at Red Rocks, and another very kind climber has offered to let me stay for a bit at his house.

Ezzie and I are also going to camp for some of the time at 13 mile campground. We’ve been warned it is very windy, so we’ll tie everything down. My first climb, if all goes well, will be Johnny Vegas on February 16th. Everything I read abut it makes it sound like an ideal place to start: short approach, sun, moderate, fun climbing.

On re-reading the last couple of paragraphs, it occurs to me that there is more planning going on here than is suitable for a real climbing bum. But hey. Cut me a little slack. I’ve been a lawyer for 35 years; planning is the name of the game in litigation. Give me a little time to ease into this bumming thing.

I have arranged to borrow a lap top with a wireless connection from my daughter Valerie. Using it, my digital camera and the wireless connection I hear is free at Desert Rock Sports, I hope to be able to post reports and pictures of my trip to this blog. Look for them starting the second week of February.

Dad

2008-01-01T11:55:00.000-05:00

I watched as my father scraped the mixture of pureed meat, peas and squash into a pile on the side of his plate and then awkwardly scooped some onto his spoon. With complete concentration and a shaking hand, he moved the spoon slowly toward his mouth. Just as it seemed he would drop the load of mush and have to start over, he brought his mouth down and slipped the spoon in. After swallowing, he started over, again and again. A meal took him well over an hour of hard work. He would let the staff at the nursing home feed him, but obviously preferred to do it himself. The aides seemed proud of his ability to do so.

He was 94. Since his stroke 8 years earlier, his right side was partially paralyzed and he had trouble finding the words to express his thoughts. He had worked hard at the rehabilitation hospital and been able to live at home with help from my mother for several years. Finally, when she turned 90 and his ability to care for himself deteriorated, he went into a nursing home near my sister’s house in Wolfeboro, N.H.

For most of my life, I had seriously misjudged my Dad. My mother is a very strong personality; she dominated the family as I grew up. Dad seemed a background figure: always doing whatever was needed to support what the rest of us were doing. I mistook his selflessness for weakness.

His response to his stroke and the last years of his life not only showed me how strong he was, but also gave me keys to living.

Dad seldom complained and never seemed to spend time resenting his condition or disabilities. I always found him pleasant to be with and interested in me and what I talked to him about. The staff at the nursing home emphasized how he was friendly and appreciative of what they did for him. The called him “Morty” (his name was Morton) and seemed genuinely to like him. He smiled often and sometimes gave them backrubs (as best he could). He apparently enjoyed life enough to want to keep on living it: in his last years he fought off several bouts of influenza that we all thought would kill him.

I think the key to his attitude was acceptance. He accepted that the stroke had impaired him and did not bother spending time and effort resenting that fact or lamenting what he could no longer do. But acceptance did not equate to surrender.

Dad continued to work to do all the things he could. He laboriously fed himself each meal. He crept around the nursing home in his wheelchair, investigating each new or interesting thing and trying to open every locked door. He followed the activities of the portly house cat with interest. He played catch with my sister (a physical education teacher) on her nearly daily visits. He always fussed over Sophie, my sister’s Chocolate Lab when she came to visit. He was unfailingly interested in the doings of his grandchildren. When I told him a story he recalled from my childhood he would get a big grin on his face and say, “I remember that!”

I once asked him how he was doing. He responded, “Pretty well.” Then he added, “For the way I am now.” To me that said it all. He accepted “the way” he was; but instead of resenting his condition, he focused on the “pretty well,” that is, on what was good in his life and what he could still do. His last years had a quality of gracefulness I greatly admire.

In the early morning of November 8, 2004 I was awakened by the ringing of my sister’s telephone. It was the nursing home calling. We had better come very soon. Dad had been unconscious for a couple of days and we knew the end was near. I dressed and drove over. My sister was already there. I held his hand and listened to him breath. He made a small, throat-clearing sound that was unique to him. Soon that sound will be gone from the world forever, I thought. I bit later, his hand twitched in mine and he stopped. Just stopped. No breathing, no movement, no warmth. My father was dead.

The Magic Purple Cam

2007-12-24T18:18:00.000-05:00

November, 2006. Shawangunk Mountains, New York. Damn! The shiny new Black Diamond cam I had just unclipped from my harness slipped from my fingers. I watched as it sailed down, bounced off the cliff and disappeared into the leaves on the talus. I was nearly at the end of the second pitch of Beginner’s Delight, one of those wonderful easy climbs found only at the Gunks, and had been feeling pretty pleased with myself. I’d gotten up the first tricky (tricky 5.3, Bill?) jam crack, led the famed traverse, and had been tying to impress my long suffering belayer (daughter Karen) with my expertise in placing cams for protection (an art I had practiced exactly once before). Oops, I thought, now I look stupid. She’s going to be less than “uber” impressed with old Dad for dropping one of our brand new cams. Oh, well, I told her, trying to recover a bit of lost dignity “We’ll just finish the climb and go back to the bottom and retrieve it.”

We finished the climb, but I couldn’t find the cam. A guide who happened to be in the area helped me look, but with 8-10 inches of leaves covering the steep talus, I was slipping and sliding all over the place. I soon decided to give up before I pushed the whole slope down onto the carriage road. Anyway, the cam would cost $70 to replace, but a wonderful weekend climbing with my daughter in the Gunks was, as the credit card company says, priceless.

The following day, Karen stopped by the bulletin board at the Uberfall. “Dad, there’s a note here. Someone says she found a cam at the base of a climb. It might be ours. There’s an email address.” Sure enough, some extraordinarily kind woman named Jean had found a cam and was offering to return it to the person who could identify it. Wow! I copied the address and shoved it in my wallet.

I emailed this Jean person a few days later explaining that I had dropped a cam off Beginner’s and asked if the cam she found had been near the base of that climb. It had been, but Jean did not seem to be one to return cams precipitously. Or perhaps she was becoming fond of the shiny piece of rock jewelry. Who could blame her? Finders are, after all, keepers. In any event, she needed more information to be sure the cam was really mine. What size/color was the cam I had dropped? Was it a c3 or c4? Was it the old style or the new? This, from my perspective, was a revolting development. Having just resumed climbing after a brief, 35 year hiatus, I knew my chromolly from my soft iron pitons, and could describe in detail the nightmare that was climbing on a Goldline laid rope. (It came pre-tangled. Can you say rope salad?) But all I knew about that cam I had dropped was that it cost $70 at EMS. I had forgotten its color, and had no idea of the differences between c3s and c4s, or between old and new styles.

I decided my only option was to come clean. I wrote back and explained I was a refugee from climbing in the ‘60s who had just started back in the sport a couple of months before at Karen’s urging. I confessed that I had just bought the ill fated cam at the little the climbing shop right under the cliffs, but really knew nothing about it except that it was purple. (I had discovered the color by checking at the store to see which color I was missing.) Jean wrote back saying that she supposed the cam was mine and would send it to me. But she insisted that, if I were a famous Gunks climber from the 60s, she would have to get my autograph. I would love to have been able say, “Yes, I pretty much taught Jim McCarthy and Dick Williams how to climb.” But honesty compelled me to admit that I had been at best a mediocre climber of no distinction whatever.

My purple cam came home to a joyous reunion a week or two later. But it had been preceded by a most surprising email. Jean wrote to say that she and her climbing partner Annie would like to meet and climb with me and Karen sometime. I’d like to think it was my honesty, my humility or perhaps the elegance of my writing that attracted their interest. But, more likely it was the father-daughter, two generations climbing together motif.

In any event, Jean, Annie and I did meet and climb in the Gunks. Our first climb was Horseman; Jean led. We climbed Madame G’s, and I got to lead a couple of pitches of Hawk. Jean led Ken’s Crack. Annie got up it; I couldn’t. So much for my ego. Jean taught me how to build an anchor using an equallete, and checked me out on placing cams. I learned even more just watching them climb. They introduced me to their 9 inch high climbing friend Tori. I had a great time. Since then, we’ve climbed together in New Hampshire and the Gunks several times. They have this neat VW camper van and are both such great, fun people. I consider them good friends. Knowing them has enriched my climbing life.

I hope and think that Jean and Annie have also enjoyed knowing and climbing with me. Although, …… I would not be surprised to hear Jean say, perhaps with a twinkle in her eye, “I gave up a brand new Camalot and got in return what? The chance to climb with an old relic? What was I thinking when I posted that note on the Uberfall bulletin board?”

And it all began when that purple cam slipped out of my hand and bounced to the ground off Beginner’s Delight.

Photos from top - (l to r) Jean, Annie, Karen and Lois (Bill's wife) in the parking lot at the Gunks; Annie climbing Limelight; Jean leading Limelight.

Close to Home Again

2007-12-20T09:19:00.000-05:00

I was going to be the great trial lawyer of my generation. I had read the lives of Clarence Darrow and Louis Nizer, studied books on cross examination and, as a law student, haunted Boston courtrooms to study how it was done. I didn't make it, of course. Instead I became a "civil litigator," someone who goes to court to try a case only on those rare occasions when the damn thing doesn't settle. I console myself that I spent 21 years of my litigating career enforcing the Federal laws that make and keep our air breathable, our water drinkable and our soil safe for children to play in. When my grandchildren visit me in the nursing home and ask what I did with my life, I'll say, "You know that air outside you can still breath? I helped keep it that way."

But a casualty of my efforts first to be a great trial lawyer and then to be a competent enforcer of our environmental protection laws was rock climbing and mountaineering. I started climbing in the Shawangunks as a kid in 1963 (I think), and continued through 1972. I was never very good; 5.8 rock was about my limit (but almost no one was climbing harder than 5.10 then). I made trips to climb in Yosemite, the Tetons, the Cascades and New Hampshire crags. I pounded chromolly pitons, wore knickers and Royal Robbins boots, tied the rope around my waist with a bowline, and caught many falls with a hip belay. I never meant for it to end, but it did, displaced first by law school and then by 16 hour days at the firm in the ultimately futile pursuit of "greatness." I just didn't climb anymore.

Thirty-five years later, as I was starting to surrender to inevitable physical decline, my older daughter got me back into rock climbing (see Return to Easy Overhang, below). What started as a one-time excursion turned into a passion. Translation: I've been climbing a lot for the last 18 months. I've also spent some time considering what it is like to pick up at age 60 a physical activity I gave up at 25.

There are, of course, the obvious differences in the sport itself. (I don't think we even called it a sport in 1970.) The shoe rubber is stickier now and the shoes are a lot less comfortable. Pitons are out and these camming gadgets are all the rage. (It took a couple of leader falls to persuade me they would hold anything.) Someone has invented things called climbing gyms and "sport" climbing, which latter I have learned is different from "trad." "Mountaineering, the Freedom of the Hills," my bible in my first climbing life is still published (I bought my daughter the newest edition), but it has been supplemented by eleven-thousand books by John Long, most of which appear to be about how to use chocks and cams to build an anchor. How solid can these things be if it is that hard to get them to hold onto the rock? I created a mild, carriage-road sensation on my first trip back to the Gunks by using a hip belay. So I broke down and for the next trip bought a "belay device" and harness, which my daughter showed me how to use.

But, the essential experience has not changed. My beloved Gunks still look and feel much the same. I approach a climb with the same mixture of excitement and fear that I remember from the '60s. I still look up at the first moves and wonder if I will be able to do them. I tie into and trust my life to a rope that looks and feels very like the red Edelrid rope I used in Yosemite in 1972. I still look for cracks to use for protection, and try to keep track of how far I am above my last piece (although years ago I would have said "piton" not piece). I have a very similar sense of accomplishment on finishing a pitch and getting to the belay, even though once there I now have to "build and anchor" not just slam in a piton. Trad climbers now face the same truth that I did in 40 years ago: to get better we have to do something risky (lead a route) at a harder level than we have ever done before. Our safety still depends on awareness, judgement and preparation: recognizing when the situation is beginning to deteriorate, knowing when to back off and how to downclimb, having the right gear to cope with the unexpected (e.g., headlamps for a retreat in the dark, warm clothing to keep an injured party from shock, etc.), rechecking the simple stuff (like the rappel set up).

Best of all, for the most part, the rock has not changed. When I put my hands on Ken's Crack in the Gunks, I am grabbing the very same holds I did when I was 16. Last year, Karen and I sat on the same belay ledge on Easy Overhang that my college friend Mick and I used in 1968 when I took him on his first rock climb. This past summer, Karen and I climbed Thin Air on Cathedral Ledge in New Hampshire. I have a picture of my wife on the same route in the early 70s. I suppose it is true that you can't go home again, or as James Taylor put it, "We'll never be here again." If home hasn't changed, you have, so the essential experience can never be recaptured. But for me, returning to rock climbing is awfully damn close. In a way time at the cliffs seems to have stood still. Have Ken's, Thin Air, Baby, and the rest just been waiting, frozen in time, for me to return? Of course not. But last winter it felt that way when I stopped by the Gunks on a cold, icy day just to look at and touch the rock once again.

There is, however, one thing that has changed: I am having more fun climbing now than I did when I was 20. Why? Its probably the sticky rubber on the shoes. Not! No, I think it is because, I have given up, along with my dream of being a great trial lawyer, the effort to be a great or even good climber. I am now less focused on how hard I can climb and more on the thrill of simply being able to do it at all and the feel of moving on the rock, using my body to make one interesting move after another. Oh, I still want to get better, and I have improved modestly. But, what sticks in my mind after a good climb is how the moves felt and the world looked from that vertical environment.

Its good to be [almost] home again.

Pictures: Top - me starting Baby at the Gunks. Bottom - Lois at the Gunks this year, photo by Annie Rubright.

It's Valerie's Fault

2007-12-19T18:20:00.000-05:00

It was the Spring of 1998. On my return from a week long trip to take some depositions in Salt Lake City, the women of the family (wife Lois and daughters Valerie and Karen) made it known that "Mom" needed a new car. So the next day, a Saturday, the family Hutchins went car shopping.

Lois, being practical and thrifty, would have settled for an economical vehicle with a good service record as reported by Consumer Reports. But not, it seems, Val. She had brought home several car enthusiast magazines and been talking up sporty models, such as the Camaro and the Mustang. Lois didn't cotton to the Camaro, but admitted the Mustangs were snazzy. So, we found ourselves at the local Ford dealer climbing into a dark green, convertible, V8 Mustang. Lois put her foot down. Fun! We put the top down. More fun!! After a day of shopping around and driving other cars, we were back at the Ford dealer to buy that green Mustang. Lois named her Beatrice and we still have her. Good car. But that was only the beginning of the rest of the trouble.

I drove her from time to time and liked the power. I had never had a "fun" car before. Val must have noticed, because she started pointing me to the articles about Corvettes in her car mags. Pretty soon, she and I were discussing how much fun we could have in a Vette. Several months later, I bought a really pretty, white 1989 Vette with a red interior. I named him Yeti because, despite all his great features, he was an abominable snow car.

This is where the real trouble begins. I went looking on the Internet for somewhere I could let Yeti run. I found it: Summit Point Raceway in West Virginia, a 10 turn road course where they have something called Friday At The Track (FATT). FATTERs get to take their street cars out onto the race track with an instructor who shows them how to hustle the car faster and faster through the turns and down the straights. Yeti loved it. I was as bad at first on the track as he was in the snow. But persistence pays off. After about 8 FATTs, I was getting the hang of it. A fellow who had described me on my first day as, "Driving like Grandma" came up and said I "Looked pretty good out there. Almost like a racer." But of course, FATT is only practice, not real wheel-to-wheel racing.

Yeti and I spent three seasons going to FATT and similar events. But it was a rough life for the Vette. After several crashes and much time in the body shop, Yeti caught fire one day on the track and burned to a hulk. I was very sad, but undeterred by the crashes or the fire.

Two weeks later, I had acquired a 1997 Miata and a plan to convert it into a real race car and go wheel to wheel racing with the Sports Car Club of America. I spent most of the summer of 2002 doing the conversion: stripping out unnecessary stuff (e.g., A/C, power steering, interior, soft top, etc.) and installing roll cage, racing seat, stiff suspension, hard top, kill switch, and more. My single bay car port beside my suburban house served as my race shop. My neighbors were very understanding. I did the whole conversion myself and was I thrilled when the car passed technical inspection and was ready for my two required racing schools. I did both schools in the fall and got my racing license.

I have spent many weekends over the last five years racing at Summit Point, Watkins Glen, Virginia International Raceway and other East coast tracks. I do almost all the maintenance and repair work (necessitated by the occasional crash) myself, still in my car port. I'm a mid pack driver who does it for the sheer fun of wheel to wheel competition. When I am on the track dicing with another car, it just doesn't matter if it is for 7th or 27th place. Its just pure fun, if a bit scary. Sure, when I get back to the paddock, climb out of the car, drink some Gatorade and walk over to look at the result sheet, I always wish I had been just a little faster and finished just a bit higher. But the real reward is the doing of it.

My renewed interest in rock climbing has curtailed my racing this past season. Recently the County building inspector threw up another impediment to my racing in the form of an order to remove my race car from the premises. It seems vehicles not registered for the road are not permitted to be kept in my too spiffy neighborhood. But now that I have retired, I am hoping to overcome this hurdle and do a lot of racing and climbing.

And what about Valerie, who started this thing going? She has graduated from the University of Pennsylvania where, in addition to earning a degree in economics, she lettered all four years in crew and was chosen an All American. But, all is not lost. I think I may get her into the racing game yet. I took her riding in the race car on a practice day at the track a couple of years ago. After several sessions where I was pushing the car pretty hard. I asked her what she thought. Now, everyone else to whom I have given race car rides says something like, "Oh my god! That was incredible. How do you do it?" But Val just looked at me and said in a bored sort of voice, "That was OK, but I wish we had spun out. I wanted to see what a spin feels like." Gotta love her.

Photos: Top - Yeti at FATT. Bottom: Bill racing the Miata at Virginia International Raceway.

Return to Easy Overhang

2007-12-19T11:50:00.000-05:00

August 2006. Decked out in shiny new rock climbing gear, I huffed and puffed my way up the talus slope toward a technical rock climb called Easy Overhang. If my daughter Karen, who followed behind, had doubts about this enterprise, she had good reason. I was about to try to lead her up a 200 foot vertical cliff in the Shawangunk mountains of New York. It had been 35 years since I had last done anything like this.

The roots of our adventure lay in a phone call Karen had made to me several months before. "Dad, guess what? I went to the rock climbing gym yesterday." I had heard that, in the years since I had stopped climbing, someone had invented the rock gym, but i had never actually seen one. Karen explained she had "Done a 5.7 and gotten half way up a 5.8!" She called me several more times to report further progress climbing what I learned were plastic holds bolted to a plywood wall. I had not led an active life for many years and had pretty much resigned myself to growing old and feeble. Nonetheless, I finally asked Karen if she would like to climb something outdoors with me some time. She answered "yes" with what sounded like genuine enthusiasm, so there we were, several weeks later, roping up at the bottom of Easy Overhang.

Easy O is a very easy, but steep and exposed climb. The kind of exciting, easy climb one finds almost nowhere but the "Gunks." I had done it many years before, but that was when I was a strong 20 year-old; and we pounded nice strong pitons into the rock for protection. Now, I am a fat old man and, in the interest of saving the rock from destruction, climbers use little things called chocks and complicated cams that are supposed to stick in the cracks by friction. It would be fair to say I was a tad nervous as I stepped onto the rock for my first lead in many years.

As I struggled to make the first move into an easy gully, I thought, "I don't remember this being quite so hard." I made it, though, and worked my way up the gully. Finding two nice, solid bolts into which to tie at the first belay ledge was a great relief. Karen followed without difficulty and seemed quite comfortable on a ledge 100 feet off the ground.

The second pitch is steeper and much more exposed than the first, but I found myself less sketched (a climber's term for scared). I put several of the new "protection" devices in, wondered if they would hold a fly, wished for some of my old chromolly pitons, and soon found myself making the last moves to the top! I belayed Karen up and realized,

"OH MY GOD! I HAD ACTUALLY DONE IT!"

I had led a real rock climb again. I could still do it. And I had shared it with my daughter. Doing that easy climb with Karen was one of the most rewarding, thrilling, empowering experiences of my life. It gave me a whole new way to relate to my daughter: not as a child of whom I took care, but as a climbing partner whom I trusted with my life and who trusted me with hers. I have looked at myself differently every day since: I am someone who, within limits, is still physically capable. Beyond that, I have gained a wonderful sense that my life is expanding, new possibilities are opening for me.

And, yes, I have kept climbing and worked my way up to doing somewhat more serious routes. But none will ever mean as much to me as that August day on Easy O in my beloved Gunks.

Here is a picture of Karen following Richard Goldstone up a more difficult climb in the Gunks called Limelight. Richard not only led, but also rappelled part way back down to take the picture.