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.
Showing posts with label Lois. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lois. Show all posts
Friday, May 16, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Rawlpindi
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.
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.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
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’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.
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