The Night Before

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.

Getting Ready for Red Rock

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.