Sandstone Drama

A four-mile 4x4 road literally dead-ends at the rim of the canyon. The view is outstanding—sprouting from the valley floor poke the twin towers of Crow’s Head Spires, as the West Shafer Canyon spills out before you for miles, reaching deep into Canyonlands National Park. The rarely climbed Crow’s Head Spires are less than four hundred yards away from the edge of the rim, but to reach their base requires a 450-foot rappel down vertical Wingate from the end of the road.

On Thanksgiving Day, Jonathan and I climbed the left tower, Don Juan Spire, by the route, Yesterday’s News Variation—5.10, two stars. The plan was to have JT lead the crux second pitch since the description read, “Climb the offwidth to easier OW…” In my opinion, there is no such thing as easy offwidth, let alone an “easier OW.” Plus, JT forgot to pack the essential #5 Camalot, so it was his punishment. But because I got lost on the first pitch and couldn’t deal with the ensuing rope drag, I didn’t make it to the first belay and ended up with the lead for the OW pitch. The pitch started with an unprotected 5.9 traverse for 20 feet on brittle, flaky crimps right off the belay. This was not the scary part. Easy hand jamming led to the OW. With my last piece of gear at my feet, I headed up the wide crack. After five feet, I made a futile effort to place the #4 Camalot. It wasn’t even close to fitting. Seeing that the crack only widened, I didn’t try again. Because it was such an obvious thing to be upset about and I knew he felt badly about it, I didn’t actually scream at JT for forgetting the #5. Instead I grappled on, trying not to think about the ledge below me that I would hit if I fell. I was out of JT’s sight and all alone with my battle. It was one of those rare moments I personally experience in climbing when things are so bad, that it is impossible to consider them. As a result, I was uncharacteristically calm and quiet and completed the task without drama. When JT reached the belay he was impressed with my 20-foot OW run-out. He said he would have for sure backed off. I wanted to at one point, as summits aren’t very important to me. JT has climbed nearly 50 desert towers. Summits are very important to him.

Despite the typical nuisances of desert tower climbing (i.e., loose rock, difficult route finding, and bad anchors), the route on Don Juan Spire was quite good. It was given two stars, so I naively expected the same out of the similarly graded Lizard Action, on the sister tower, Luminous Being Spire. Not so much.

It started out bad—really bad. I backed off two different first pitch variations because of loose rock, or lack of proper gear (yes, the forgotten #5 Camalot). I managed to lead a meager 100 feet off the ground, gave up, and put in a belay. JT then led an equally chossy, but much more difficult pitch up a super loose chimney and corner. It was so bad that at one point I heard him say from around the corner, “Uh… this is a significant situation. If you hear a lot of rockfall, don’t freak out… it’s just because everything I’m standing on just shifted.” I was so pissed and scared following this pitch that I bitched the entire time, screaming obscenities and things like, “This is bullshit! We are going to bail… it’s not worth it!” When I got to the belay and saw JT’s conflicted expression: He loves this tower choss shit, but hates to see me stressed. I knew I couldn’t force us to bail. We were only 130 feet from the top. I took the rack.

I set off, jamming the stout, 15-foot crack off the belay, but broke a hold on easier ground and whipped, nearly landing on JT’s head. Great. I went back up, got to the base of a dirty, disgusting wide crack and said forget it. I was over it. I down-led 10 feet and was prepared to go all the way back to the belay, but then thought about JT again. “Alright, I’ll try another way,” I told myself. I climbed a farther right line, through better, though still crappy, rock to a small ledge. I saw a drilled pin higher up, but couldn’t help worrying about the ledge that I would hit if I fell before getting the pin clipped. I saw JT’s eager (but still concerned) face and clawed the soft, eroding, sandstone slopers for 10 feet and clipped the pin. And then what? There was nothing but sandy slopers and crumbly edges. “Take!” I couldn’t handle it any more. I hung on the end of the rope and shook from the cold and the stress. Before conceding once again, I took out the route description JT had printed from Mountain Project. It read, “Move left to a drilled pin, move up and left to the arête and another drilled pin and an alcove/roof. Place as much shit gear as possible (I had 5 equalized pieces that wouldn’t have held a fall). Relax. Make final moves to the anchor.” I was definitely coming down now. I was again out of JT’s sight, but could imagine him holding me on the rope, worried. Shit, ok, one more try. I unweighted the rope and climbed left. No pin. I hung on the rope again. “There’s nothing to the left!” I shrieked. “Then it must be right.” JT’s small voice came from below. I went right and did finally see it, but it was still 20 feet above me. Again, the thought of hitting the ledge vaporized and I methodically climbed the slabby face to the higher pin. 20 more feet to the top. After coping with rope drag, more runouts, and route finding, I beached myself on the summit.

“Off Belay!” I thankfully called down.

JT had been patiently belaying me for nearly two hours in the freezing, shady cold. I would have been hollering like my head was on fire, but not him. Although he followed the pitch with composure, I knew he was suffering big time from frozen hands. He enthusiastically stood atop the summit, which was technically 10 feet above my belay. I couldn’t be bothered. I was more concerned with getting back to the ground and safely up the 450-foot jug and haul back to the.

There were two anchors on the summit and I wanted to use a different (better) anchor than the one the guide described for the rappel. The tower was 250 feet, and I illogically figured we could make it to the ground in one double-rope rappel. JT, sensing I was in no mood for an argument, reluctantly threaded the ropes through the rap rings. I insisted on going first. After rapping for about 100 feet, I could see the ends of the ropes swinging in midair, 50 feet from the ground. Damnit! Two feet from the ends of the ropes, I swung into a shallow chimney, plugged in two big cams and clipped myself off to them. I screamed up to JT the situation and he started to rappel.

On a ledge, 50 feet above me, JT said evenly, “Why didn’t you stop at these anchors?”

“Because I obviously didn’t see them!” I snapped in a super bitchy tone, annoyed that I had somehow missed the rap anchor.

As if JT had never been involved in a rappelling epic on a tower, I screamed the obvious, “Pull the ropes, thread that anchor, and we’ll both make it to the ground from there.”

I could hear JT struggling with the pull.

“It won’t pull… the knot is stuck at the lip.” He calmly shouted down.

I thought fast and yelled up, “Fix the rest of the tag line (I had the end of it in my hand) to that anchor, cut as much of the lead line as you can, rap to me on the tag with the piece of lead line, and we can fix that from these cams to the ground.” I screamed up with self-appointed authority.

“No way… I’ll up-rap to the knot and free it.” He dared to answer.

“Forget it, it is getting late and I want to get out of here!” I yelled. “We have dozens of ropes… it’s not worth the risk!”

“No I’ll up-rap real quick,” he explained. “I don’t want to leave ropes littering the tower.”

“I don’t give a shit what you think! I want to get the hell out of here NOW! Leave the ropes! We have 100s of ropes!” I was out of my mind with fear and frustration. I also was so afraid of JT up-raping the scary thin tag line and it cutting. I was completely overcome with the ghastly vision of his body hurling past me and exploding 50 feet below where I helplessly hung. JT wasn’t going to leave the ropes, though, and quickly set off, up-rapping the 150 feet back to the stuck knot.

“I will never climb with you again you shithead jackass unless you leave the goddamn mother-fucking ropes!” I sobbed in a crazed, insane, hysterical voice. “We have millions of ropes!” (I’m certain I have never behaved this badly in my life.)

“It’s okay baby, don’t yell at me, I’m almost to the knot.” He said in an assuring, yet ineffective manner.

“Screw you! I’m going to unclip and down climb to the ground! I can’t deal with this anymore!”

“Don’t do that baby… that’s too dangerous.” He cooed.

Poor guy, not only did he have a rappel epic to contend with, he now had a mental case to counsel. I didn’t unclip, instead, I waited for what seemed an eternity for JT to free the knot, rap back down to his anchors, re-pull the ropes, until finally both ends of the ropes reached the ground.

We didn’t talk to each other much as JT coiled the ropes and we walked back to the jug out. As I jugged and hauled more than my share (I was feeling extremely guilty for how I acted), I thought about how climbing can bring out the very best of you and the very worst. And that although the thought of losing the person you love most can make you insane, one of the bonuses in loving that someone, is learning to become a better human being by that person’s example.

Everything I Know I Learned from Sue McDevitt

There aren’t too many memories I retain from when I very first learned to climb 15 years ago. One, exceptionally vivid memory is of sitting on the pot, reading a Climbing magazine article and being completely captivated by a cover feature about Sue McDevitt. WHY? She lived in the Valley, did big walls and climbed cracks. She seemed so bad ass. Fast forward five years, I was at the tradeshow and met Sue at the Black Diamond booth. I cheekily introduced myself and announced, trying desperately to sound cool, that I was “coming to the Valley.” She unpretentiously offered that I call her when I was there.

The next day, as I packed my van in the driveway, my boyfriend nervously asked what I was doing. When I told him I was going to the Valley, he shrugged and mumbled something about discussing it first with him. Sue invited me to come climb with her and I wasn’t going to let a single unnecessary second pass before I got there. Eighteen hours later, I was enjoying a glass of red wine with Sue McDevitt—the Sue McDevitt.

Problem was, despite the fact that I had aspired to climb the famed routes of Yosemite and I was a solid 5.12 sport climber, I had only led three gear pitches in my life. The next day we were on the Rostrum. I was too intimidated to confess the truth, so I took the rack pitch after pitch, gulped at each placement and managed to do the route. Although she has never admitted it, I’m certain she sensed my inadequacies and steered me accordingly. Throughout the next month we climbed nearly every day, long free routes and my first real wall route, sharing a single portaledge, eating beans straight from the can and sipping carefully measured out tequila from a Nalgene. She shared stories from her early days in the Valley, climbing with the various partners and subsequent epics, which included getting benighted on the route, a forced bivy in a tree and her partner, another girl, peeing her pants during the night.

Sure, Sue taught me how to how to trad climb, aid climb, and how to rack, but more importantly, she taught me lessons that have guided me throughout my life as a climber:

• How to tolerate guests--Whenever I am tempted to freak out on dossing dirtbags in my house, I remember that I lived at Sue’s for TWO months and never once did she vibe me for leaving a dish in the sink or drinking the last beer.

• How to trust your husband--When Sue was out of town, Dan, her husband, and I slept in the same portaledge for five nights on El Cap. Now, if a tinge of jealousy creeps in when my boyfriend volunteers to spot a young hottie, I let it go.

• How to raise a child--In today’s world of overbearing, overprotective and inattentive parenting, it is refreshing to see Maykala, now eight, thrive despite being raised at the crag, running feral, playing naked in the garden and sampling Fancy Feast cat food. Plus, she’s an exceptional artist and can do a one arm. Seriously.

Other lessons include: How to be humble… how to drink a bottle of wine and still get up the next morning to climb Astroman… how to make incredible pasta sauce, how to build an outside shower, how to outright own two properties in California, one with 40 acres and one 15 miles from Yosemite, building the homes with bare hands—all the while maintaining “the life of a climbing bum.”

More than eight years have gone by since those early days spent with Sue. I had let five years pass without climbing with her at all. Now, she is a mother and I have multiple jobs and my enthusiasm for the Valley has waned. But it really isn’t so simple to blame my lax attitude with the Valley and spending time with her on that. It is much more nostalgic. God willing, we all experience “The Glory Days”—whether it occurs in high school, college or, in my case, the beginnings as a well-rounded climber. What made those times so meaningful then and so bittersweet now is the very fact that they were so extraordinary and seminal. Maybe I’m not really avoiding her because I’m afraid of things not being the same, but more out of respect that they won’t. So many times, as an itinerant climber, you connect with exceptional people, have amazing times with them, say good-bye and NEVER see or hear from them again. I guess that is what separates Sue from the mundanely special.

There are important lessons one learns from being a climber that directly apply to life. Many of these values I acquired from Sue.

Flipflop

“It’s a shirt.” I contested.

“Ma’am, remove your jacket.” He said, again. I wondered what kind of mark on my already marred TSA record would result in calling a security agent a pervert.

I stood half naked in a sports bra. Unflappable, he gestured toward my feet.

“Your shoes” he said flatly.

Now I was pissed.

“They’re flip-flops!” I spat, unable to hold my tongue.

“Ma’am, please step over there”

He pointed to the enclosed glass corral for problem passengers.

“Female assist!” He hollered.

Now I was screwed.

I waited in the black plastic chair, flip-flops obediently placed in the outline of feet in front of me.

Now I was late.

Eventually, the woman with the wand waddled up and looked down her nose at my feet. They were filthy from a week spent in the dirt at Tahquitz.

BEEP! The wand responded as she waved it over my right foot, detecting the twelve screws and metal plate. I pointed out the six-inch surgical scar and after considerable consideration, she released me.

“Have a nice day (delay)”

I grabbed my laptop and Ipod, and leapt into a sprint toward terminal 8, gate 88.

A gap opened up ahead. In haste, I went for the hole shot and stepped in the puddle of spilled smoothie everyone else was avoiding. The sticky residue produced a rhythmic crackling sound each time my foot lifted from the floor. My breaths came in open-mouthed gasps as I raced to the beat of slap, flip, slap, crackle, flip; slap, flip, slap, crackle, flip. I imagined O.J. Simpson. My left arm, which clutched my laptop, pumped faster. I hurdled the outstretched power cord of a charging cell phone. I overtook a portly bike cop on a straightaway. I disruptively burst through the line at Starbucks.

At the end of the terminal, the bouncing, illuminated vision of ‘GATE 88’ grew larger.

As the last confirmed passenger to board, I collapsed into seat 34C. Ironically, I was still only wearing my sports bra.

Trade Show Mania

Feeling a slightly uneasy nostalgia, I entered the Salt Palace the Monday before the tradeshow. The lights were dim, crates were scattered everywhere, heavy machinery beeped and competing boom boxes scratched out every genre of music.

I’ve been to eighteen Outdoor Retailers. I’ve arrived in planes, box vans, Uhauls, a 1976 RV, and countless road trip vehicles. This time, however, I drove my own vehicle the ten blocks from my house. That’s right, after all the years of dissin’ Salt Lake, I now live here.

I self elected myself to design and take charge of the AAC booth for this show. My vision was to erect a mini library. One of the greatest assets of the AAC, in my opinion, is the library, and I wanted to take that theme and design the booth with that in mind. I wanted it to be a cool hang for people to relax and browse through old climbing publications and discuss who had the better mullet, Scott Franklin or Lynn Hill, most outrageous lycra, Scott Franklin or Lynn Hill.

Because of budgetary constraints, I didn’t have much to work with so I did the best I could. My boyfriend came home from work after the first day of setup and exclaimed, “Where’s all our living room furniture?”

The Wednesday before the show started we hosted an eclectic group of friends including: Phil Powers, Jim Donini, Jack Tackle, Russ Clune, Lynn Hill (and her Mom), Christian Griffith (aka, Verve), Timmy Oneill, Ivo Ninov, Ammon McNeely, Joe Kindner, Dave Graham, Patagonia, Prana, Petzl, TNF, Black Diamond and our next door neighbor, Joe, a Vietnam vet from Guatemala. Needless to say, this was not the most restful or detoxifying way to start the show. Over the course of the four days of the show, we had personalities come by for ‘Story Time’. Lynn Hill, Heidi Wirtz, Ivo and Ammon, and Chris Lindner all came by to share stories, videos, pictures and gossip. And of course, there were the old guys, Jim Donini and Jim McCarthy (who devotedly manned the booth most of the time). Also seen and heard were Ed Viesteurs, Conrad Anker and Jim Bridwell. We even smuggled in a case of 3.2 Pabst (oh no we dih-int)

This year’s bouldering comp was held on top of the Shilo Inn’s parking garage, which turned out to be a fantastic location with a record attendance. Located right across the street from the Salt Palace, folks started assembling as soon as the beer started flowing. The wall faced south, the temps were in the 90s and the women finalists started at 6pm. Conditions were not crisp. The women were HOT! And I do mean HOT—half of the competitors wore Verve’s barely-there boom-boom shorts and teeny tiny micro-bras. And let me tell you, they wore them well. No way my mother would have let me out the door when I was 14 wearing that get up. For the men, who were unfortunately dressed more modestly (baggy shorts, boo-hoo), new AAC member Chris Sharma, took first.

A crazy after party was held at Club Sound where I had the occasion to meet yet another member from the Lynn Hill family. Her brother Tom owns the place. This normally means free drinks, but thing is, drinks were already free! Mammut, EMS and Revolution really know how to throw a party. Did I mention the cage dancers? Although I still maintain the women’s finalists were hotter.

Idyllwild, 2007

We were supposed to drive to Cabo. JT didn’t have a job and wanted to make the most of his month of unemployment. We were down in Ventura, spending a few days in the offices of Patagonia. I woke up the first morning with a hot, blistering, painful rash the shape of Asia spread over my left lat. “Looks like armpit herpes” Jonathan offered. Our friend Rob, whose house we were staying at, looked at my condition and winced. “You should go to the emergency room, I’m going to physical therapy in ten minutes, it’s right next door.” Still convinced it was an allergic reaction to my sports bra, I waited patiently on the emergency room bed, furiously texting and emailing on my BlackBerry, trying to ignore the groans from the next room where the unfortunate patient was being talked through a catheter insertion. After 45 minutes, the doctor came in, took a peek behind my gown and said flatly, “Shingles.” Thoroughly disgusted, without even knowing what shingles were, the picture of the filthy bed I slept in for two weeks in Morocco came to mind. “Kind of like adult chicken pox, but much more painful.” The doctor explained.

This, coupled with horror stories from YC about head on collisions and muggings at gunpoint, lessened my enthusiasm on our impending road trip through Baja. I scanned my mental catalog of southern California climbing areas that would appeal to JT. Hmmm, he was banned from Joshua Tree for another six months…then I thought, Idyllwild!

As we departed Ventura, YC left us with a chuckle and sadistic grin, “Beware of the 5.8s”

The authors of the guide book, Bob Gaines and Randy Vogel write, “The History of Tahquitz Rock as a climbing area dates back to the earliest beginnings of technical rock climbing in the United States. Many of the first 5.8, 5.9, 5.10, 5.11 and 5.12 climbs in the country were established here by many of the sport’s great innovators.”

I also read that it was here where Chuck Wilts, Royal Robbins and Don Wilson devised the modern “Decimal System” during the 1950s. Tahquitz local Mark Powell became one of the early Yosemite climbing bums and is credited by some with introducing the decimal system to the Valley, thus giving Yosemite credit for the innovation.

Simply put, every route at Tahquitz is a sandbag.

Day one

Sundance, 5.10b. Described in the guide as ‘a scenic cruise up the Sunshine Face’

Pitch one—a wide, 5.9 layback, un-protectable without a six friend. We didn’t have one.

Pitch two—crux pitch. Having barely reached the crux protection bolt and technically not weighting the rope, I slid six feet down the slab back onto the belay ledge. I spit scrub the edge of my shoes and then 5.12 crimp past the abysmally thin 5.10 crux only to be terrorized by the remaining 150ft. of scarcely (3 bolts) protected, and equally un-featured, ‘5.9’ slab.

Pitch three—JT backs off a 10a thin ‘crack’ version and opts for a 10b face finish. After a lot of wobbling and cursing, he gets to the belay. I follow, shrieking when the rope has even an inch of slack.

This route was done in 1967.

Day two

The Vampire, 5.11a, “A fantastic line that achieves magnificent position, perhaps Tahquitz’s finest route”

Pitch one—It takes me over an hour to lead the 10d Bat Crack. I barely barely barely do it without falling.

Pitch two—we get stormed off (it was a little windy) and bail.

This route was done in 1973

Day three—Beer deck in town.

One of the best things about climbing trips is meeting the locals and today we had the good fortune of meeting Clark Jacobs. Clark is small in stature, has salt and pepper bushy hair and mustache, and a deeply creased brown face. But behind his endearing smile and bashful eyes, live hundreds of outrageous stories. One such tale involved a stray vial of coke found at the base of a new boulder problem. Not confessing as to whether or not he indulged, he defended, “It was the 80s!” He described one partner as being so slow that, “It took her two hours to watch 60 Minutes!” Recounting epics, whippers and strippers, he had us hysterical for the next four beers. During a slight lull in the debauchery, Clark sighed wistfully and said, “Ah, then there was Lynn Hill.”

“What’s this Clark, you know Lynn Hill?!” I asked, with exaggerated interest.

“I kissed her one night, a long time ago.” He sheepishly whispered and added, “but she probably wouldn’t remember.”

“Well, let’s give her a call and see if she does!” I gleefully offered. Clark paled when I speed dialed her on my cell.

She answered.

“Lynnie! I’m at the bar in Idyllwild and there is a guy here named Clark who thinks you wouldn’t remember kissing him 25 years ago!” I blabbered in a boozie bawl.

Luckily or unluckily, she remembered.

“Oh yeah! A short Latino guy! I was a little drunk! Tell him ‘hi’!”

Clark blushed and appeared delighted.

After a couple more Sierra Nevadas, we attempted to get Clark to agree to climb The Vampire with us the next day. He had climbed it dozens of times in the past, but felt he wasn’t in proper shape to do it now.

“Come on!” I pleaded. “It will be so much fun!”

“No, I’d just slow you down.” He said with quiet nostalgia.

With more drunken enthusiasm, we got him to a ‘maybe’.

I surreptitiously paid the entire bar tab and JT and I headed off to our campsite.

“Bye Clark! See you tomorrow morning!” We both knew we wouldn’t.

At the summit of The Vampire, JT and I sat there for a good long time. I squinted down at town, imagining Clark looking up from the beer deck, watching over us and smiling.

The Old Man's Torso

“Russians are endowed with the native facility of making the best of what would be disastrous for anyone else.”—Eric Newby, The Big Red Train Ride.

The old man’s torso, Santa Claus face, ragged Orlando Magic baseball cap and Members Only nylon jacket, disappeared down the slab.

Jonathan who stood nearer, cried, “He fell!”

Nooo, there’s no falling here. We were 300 feet up. But he was gone and it was silent.

What is happening? I was suspended between a moment of disbelief and reality.

Oleg, the old man’s son, broke the silence with eerie laughter, pointing down a gaping chimney. Thirty feet down was Valery, stuffed to a stop, leg bloodied, but not dead. He wrestled his way back up and tackled the very same slab he had moments before slipped off.

In a frantic panic to escape the ledge and the several other climbers assembled there, I scratched up the same 5.9 slab to the summit.

The summit, however, offered little serenity. There were dozens of people, most of them ‘tourists’ in shabby sneakers or barefoot, who had come up various other routes, scrambling about un-roped, with seemingly little regard for the exposure and potential disaster. This was crazy! John, in his southern drawl said, “Man, this shit would be illegal in the States!”

Although we had seen pictures and heard stories of the happenings of Stolby before coming here, I, myself, had never fully grasped the reality of it all. Imagine dozens of people, toddlers to elderly, some with picnics, others with guitars, young boys with eager young girls, families of three generations and Russian climbing champions, all congregated on this beautiful, Siberian Indian summer afternoon, some three hundred feet off the deck.

An hour later—

We reached the ground. This was the other terrifying part of climbing in Stolby; no ropes meant no rappels. We had to down climb everything.

I stood waiting near the base for Jonathan, John and our Russian friends. I looked up a hundred feet at the three-foot high Cyrillic letters painted on the main face. I was told the graffiti translated meant “Freedom” and had been there for over a hundred years. I realized that the taiga forest we were in had provided a freedom, of sorts, for Soviet/Russian people for over 150 years. I also thought about the fact that there was a time, not too long ago, in the era of Gulags, that Siberia was synonymous with death.

Jonathan joined me and we waited for John, who is constantly fumbling around with camera cases and lenses, to stumble down. Meanwhile, I watched the continuous parade of people ascending the rock. I heard a loud thud and turned to see something brown hit a ledge, hard, and disappear into the trees, out of view, but again heard a loud thud as it hit the ground. My consciousness told me it was a pack. Minutes later, I saw someone running through the foliage toward the area where the pack landed. Jonathan had surreptitiously walked off. More people started running and I heard a shriek. Other people spoke in hushed Russian as they continued down the trail. Two of our Russian friends were on cell phones. Where was Jonathan! I started to worry and slowly walked toward the place, near the cliff, where a few people were standing. Two of our Russian guides were crouched down in the brush, Jonathan stood just behind. “Jonath..” I whispered. He shook his head at me and pointed back up the hill. His pained expression and wet eyes told me it wasn’t a pack.

We have five more days of climbing.

Teton Climbers Week

I had only been to the Grand Teton Climbers' Ranch once before. It was two summers ago. I had come to climb the Cathedral traverse with Jack Tackle. When I asked Jack what time we were heading out in the morning, he said in his deep, thoughtful voice, “Two would be good” Two! The only good thing I knew about 2am was ordering a drink during last call. Needless to say, I arrived at the ranch in the dark and departed in the dark, spending less than three hours in my bunk.

This week wouldn’t be a typical climbing trip, however. Since I am the AAC’s director of fun and games, camp cook and den mother, I was very busy tracking down slideshow presenters, preparing Mediterranean couscous salad, tapping kegs and doing dishes.

But my biggest anxiety was the fact that someone sorry sucker had paid $150 to climb with me. ‘Climb With’ day was a fundraiser for the club. Members could make a donation and have Jim Donini, Phil Powers, Charley Mace or Josh Wharton for the day. Apparently, I was the first to be booked. A wife requested me for her husband’s birthday present. This was sounding weirder and weirder. Anyway, I hope he wanted to go bouldering.

The Mertaughs, Tom, Karen and son Ryan arrived Sunday afternoon. I detected Midwest accents immediately and told them I was from Iowa. Their faces lit up when Drew, the ranch manager, introduced me.

“Brittany! We are going climbing with you tomorrow!” So these were the sorry suckers. “Grrrreat!” I feigned enthusiasm.

“What would you like to do?” Please say bouldering please say bouldering, I silently prayed to myself.

“Well, I was thinking Armed Robbery.” Tom said with a big giant Michigan smile.

“HA!” Drew laughed aloud. He was well aware of how intimidated I was by the Tetons. Let me explain. I, with the exception of hiking Teewinot and Owen, had never climbed here. The climbing didn’t scare me as much as the approaches and route finding did, and, oh, that I’m not a guide. A friend cleverly described the routes here as ‘for every mile you hike, you get to climb that many pitches.’

“Why are you laughing, Drew?” I asked nervously.

“Uh, that’s like a five hour hike, and I don’t know anyone who has done it…” I gulped and excused myself.

I found Jack at the keg. He immediately sensed my trepidation. I explained the situation. Normally, when Jack and I climb, our roles are quite clear. I am the rope gun and he is the approach gun. So Jack knows full well how hopeless I am at route finding and other critical details of adventure climbing. But Good Ole Uncle Jack put his arm around me (hmm) and reassured me he would take care of it.

As I introduced Jack to Tom and Ryan, I could read their star struck expressions, ‘Oh My God! That’s JACK TACKLE!’ Too bad Jack had a sales meeting the next day and couldn’t be my approach bitch. (He would have generously done it, too.) Instead, he rubbed his mustache and in his sonorous tone said, “Now, this is what you want to do…”

In the end, he convinced them that they did not want to climb some obscure, long, chossy beast, but in fact do Guides Wall.

A boat ride? A hike under two hours? Good rock? Clean cracks? Rappels? Back to the keg by five? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. AND, they both agreed that that was what they wanted to do. Jack’s Jedi Mind Trick worked! Still, this was the Tetons, not Rifle, and it was quite possible I wouldn’t even be able to find the boat dock at Jenny Lake. Jack’s level of thoughtfulness went a step further when he diligently hand drew me a topo, which, to my delight, included not only the route, rappel route, approach, but also the left, right, left turns out of the Ranch parking lot to get me to the Jenny Lake parking lot. How sweet.

The next morning, we promptly made it on the 7am boat. We squeezed past tourists and began the hike. I clutched Jack’s super topo in my sweaty hands and compulsively looked down at it every 30 seconds. ‘Get to inspiration point, hike to a small lake, head up talus to base of route’. I could handle that.

Oh god, a tee in the trail. I pretended not to look at the sign with arrows pointing in the correct direction. I filled the tense air with small talk, what did they do, what was Ryan studying at school, what was their favorite place to climb. Shit, did I pass the lake? Oh Jesus, an enormous moose was standing in the middle of the trail, twenty feet ahead. Ah, do we turn around? Tom was a veterinary so I asked him to please advise. But, just as dreams of margaritas on the deck at Dornan’s danced in my head, the moose yielded and we continued. I began to look up the slope at the cliffs, but all I discerned were great sections of broken, ledgey, crumbling crap. How in the hell am I to find this route? A line of chalked holds? Shining bolt hangers? Blue tape? Perhaps I would be able to get through this with my personality.

“Isn’t this just so fun?” I ventured. “I think it is so much more of a enriching experience when the guide hasn’t done the route and we all get to participate in the finding of the climb”

Bullshit.

“Now, well there’s a crack, a bush, some ledges, some trees and another crack. That could be our climb.” I offered hopefully. But then again, just like reading your horoscope, you see/believe what you want. We charged up hill. I thought I might have seen a cairn. I scanned the dirt for dot rubber tread marks, tape balls, anything to prove that climbers might have been on this trail recently. We reached the base of a wall. I dropped my cragging pack and started scanning the wall for a fixed pin. Found it! Ecstatic, I tied in, booted up and eagerly climbed to the piton, hoping the terrain I was covering was 5.7

For the next three hours we climbed steep clean rock, splitter cracks and belayed on sprawling, sunny ledges. Like a parent marveling at their baby’s first steps, I proudly watched Tom and Ryan thrust their virgin, Midwestern hands into cracks. Every wince and grunt made me smile. It was a magical day of climbing and I was having a brilliant time. Tom arrived at the last belay, breathless and beaming.

“Happy Birthday.” I said to him.

“Thank-you, Jack.” I said to myself.

This cannot be the right train...

This cannot be the right train. We wanted to go to Adrspach, not Mister Rodger’s Neighborhood. We reluctantly boarded the single car train and chugged off.

There were stares, giggles and shaking heads by the other passengers. An official looking man wearing a funny hat approached our bench and flatly said something in Czech. Uhhh, the three of us looked at each other. Did he say ‘tickets please’ or ‘this train is going to Istanbul’.

Jonathan, a classic, Big Loud American Male, cracked a Pilsner and plugged into his Ipod. John Dickey, the quintessential absent-minded sensitive artist, fumbled and fretted over camera cases and lenses. I sighed.

“Otter spock” the man said as the train slowed an hour later.

Hmmm, could that be the pronunciation of Adrspach? We took our chances and unloaded. The place was a ghost town. Eerie and menacing grey rock towers guarded the village. We struggled down the main (only) street each hefting 70 pound bags on our backs for the next twenty minutes.

“Where’s the pub?” I whined. Jonathan, attempting to document my meltdown on video, tripped on a cobblestone and lay capsized in the street. Dickey, hypoglycemic, couldn’t even laugh.

We eventually found our apartment and ditched our bags. With renewed enthusiasm, we quested out into the myriad of the legendary dangerous sandstone pillars. There were over a thousand, each unique in shape, height and character, but all with the same renowned reputation. We had come to climb these monsters.

The climbing here was not for the timid. Falling was usually not an option because of scarce fixed protection and the fact that other placements were knotted or threaded pieces of cord and webbing. Without a guide or guidebook, we remained optimistic and went our separate ways into the maze seeking a line we could climb. I was awed by the deep chasms and charmed by an idyllic spring. Thick green moss framed something on the wall….A memorial plaque for perished climbers! Spooked, I hightailed it back and found Dickey, who had previously been kidnapped and held hostage in Krykystan by rebels (true story), nervously rolling a cigarette.

Jonathan crashed through the trees into the somber scene and hollered, “Ho lee feckin sheet! I didn’t see a single route I would be willing to lead!” At least now I didn’t have to say it.

“But, darling Brittany, I did find one for you!”

“I’ll take photos!” Dickey brightly offered.

“I’ll write the story!” Jonathan, the handsome editor coerced.

“But we haven’t enough gear” I whimpered. We had ten quick draws, three shoulder length slings, and a piece of cordelette that I had been using as a camera strap.

“Oh yes, we do.” Jonathan said with a smirk.

Because of staunch, archaic local ethics, modern, high-tech (safe) metal gear was not allowed. Fixed protection was scarce. Bolts were rusty, doorknocker like rings attached to spikes hammered into the soft sandstone. Other than that, threads and knots were the norm.

I squinted up at the proposed line and mentally rehearsed a sequence [scenario?]. Ratchet fingers in small crack for fifteen feet, slot in camera strap knot for my first piece of protection, climb another fifteen feet, lasso a spike, continue on for an undetermined distance to a whitish jug. That was as far as I could see and psychologically digest. Oohh, I don’t want to be a rock climber today. I was scared.

“Come on, Brittany, you can do this” Jonathan said with such confidence and charm that I considered it.

I took one last look at his man hands holding my useless rope and stepped onto the awaiting pitch.

I wouldn’t be able to get in sufficient protection gear for a while, so if I fell, I would deck.

“Are you sure you can still catch me?” I moaned, twenty feet up.

“Yeah yeah, sure sure.” He lied.

I was afraid to look down to see just how small my Big Loud American Male spotter had become.

I fished the camera strap knot into the crack. I pulled lightly on it to set it. It came out. Becoming increasingly more pumped, I placed it a little higher and this time didn’t test it. I focused ahead on a big white hold. I clawed and paddled up the gritty face to reach it. It was filthy with bird poo. Without a moment’s hesitation, I thrust my hand into the gooey hole, slapped the grimy ledge and stood up onto the refuge of the five-inch wide shelf.

I rested my cheek against the face and breathed heavily. I cautiously tilted my head up toward the remaining terrain. A wide, mawing crack continued to the summit.

I started up the crack. It was wet. I panicked and tried to reverse my moves back down to the ledge. I blindly slid down with dangling feet and landed at my previous stance.

I swore with words that would have put a punk rock lyricist to shame and considered jumping. But I could smell the pine tree on the summit. I desperately wanted my rope (and arms) around its sturdy trunk. In a blur, I reached the tree, and stood atop our first, albeit short, tower. I slumped against the pine and collapsed, saying out loud that I would never do that again.

Six second passed before I was scanning the landscape for another summit....

BAG Recaps the New River Rendezvous

It was that time of year again! The New River Gorge! What is it about the Southeast that I find so charming? It most certainly can’t be the humidity, bugs, surly cops, Tudor’s Biscuit World, or abundance of red necks (excuse me, I mean Appalachian American’s).

Or maybe it is. After all, there’s nothing so endearing as local man folk holding the door for you at the CoMac and referring to you as ‘sugar’.

This event, which I’ve been attending for the past five years, is my favorite climber’s gathering. It has all the ingredients of a successful event. Good organization, treatment of guest climbers and sponsors, laid back approach to this and some of the best climbing on earth. The free music, competitions, booze and pancakes boost the ratings as well. The venue is great. Show up, park your car, put up your tent and let the games begin. No need to get into your car for the rest of the weekend. Which means not having to secure your non-drinking friends or pregnant women as designated drivers.

The festivities begin Friday night with Dessertapalooza.

A diabetic’s nightmare of sweets set out on nearly a half acre of tables. Then the beer tent opens and slideshows begin. Don’t worry, there’s no death by slideshow here, the crowd is tough and won’t have it!

Saturday sees a day of climbing for all.

The vendors aren’t chained to the booth since the venue is conveniently closed, so we all get out there and get spanked on some exceptionally old school sandbags. I got spat off a 5.10, and then as though that blow wasn’t harsh enough, I tried a 12a that felt harder than most 13a’s I’ve done. But the thing is, no one gives a crap what the hell you are flogging yourself on, it’s all about good times with good friends and basking in the rainless atmosphere.

Saturday night is the BIG night.

Vendor booths open, the dinner line starts (this year it wrapped around nearly the entire circumference of the venue), the beer tent opens early, lots of spray swapin’ and Odub rapping on the mic.
The Little General (a sight to be seen in mutton-chops, faux Gucci sunglasses and trucker hat) commands the mic after dinner and chides the crowd into a frenzy during the Sumo Pad Wrestling matches and dyno comp.
Now that the Red Bull and Vodka tent has opened, hundreds of wrist-banded hopefuls wait patiently in line for the ultimate party elixir. Jacked up and inhibitions annihilated the dance floor comes alive around 11pm. This year’s band was AWESOME! A local band from Beckley who can cover and seamlessly mix Rush into the Smashing Pumpkins like nobody’s business. For the next three hours, the dance floor writhed and head banged with the ‘great unwashed’ from all generations (I have a fuzzy recollection of a foxy, barely of legal drinking age grinding on me during the rendition of Pat Benatar’s “Hell is for Children.”)

Sunday afternoon; the calm after the storm.

A skeleton of the event remains. Half disassembled EZ ups, piles of recycling, upside down tents drying in the sun and the hissing ashes of the bonfire silently stand tribute to the previous night’s carnage.

Sunday night

Those of us left drag our weary bodies, voices and enthusiasm to one last gathering at Pies and Pints. Some of us are showered, or have at least changed clothes, some managed enough energy for feeble attempts at climbing and some of us have come straight from the event take down. Here sit an anthology of climbers distilled down from the weekend’s crowd to some of my most favorite people in the world. Gene and Maura, Russ and Amy, Donini, Devaki, Achey, Mace, Malcom, Kenny and Elaina.
If it weren’t for the chance to spend one more night with these folks, I would have been happily passed out at the Quality Inn, drooling and snoring for the next 12 hours.

Good-byes take 20 minutes. I hate good-byes so I surreptitiously leave and silently say my good-byes, which are not really good-bye, only see you next year.

Friday, May 25, 2007

And now, this very day, it is Time for me to say good-bye to yet another ‘home’. Good-bye City Market, good-bye Wells Fargo, good-bye airport, good-bye good friends and good bye 1601 Defiance, Carbondale, Colorado, 81623 (I had only just memorized the zip…)

Always going somewhere means always leaving that somewhere. It’s the bitter sweetness of life on the road.

Light and Fast, Lost and Lonely, and Freezing

“I thought we were sport-climbing in the Dihedrals?” Steve asked as I heaved my bulging pack from the back of his shaggin wagon.

“Yeah, that’s right” I wrestled the haul bag onto my back, casually forgoing buckling straps or waist belts. He picked up his pack with one finger and deliberately adjusted it to his form.

I disapprovingly assessed his clothing. Hyper high tech undersized pants three inches too short, exposing critically technical approach shoes, tightly laced. On top he had some sort of wacky prototype R10.37 shiny shaggy fleecy thing stretched across his perfectly defined chest and biceps. I shook my head in mild disgust. How could he not know that hemp jeans, threadbare cotton tees and bikini tops were protocol? I scuffed down the trail in sloppy, unlaced sneakers checking my cell phone to see if I had any missed calls or texts.

At the base of the climb, I upended my pack and dumped half of its contents in the dirt. Quick draws, a Gri-gri, belay glove, harness, flip flops, beanie, shorts, wool cardigan, sun hat, sweat pants, ibuprofen, three types of lip balm, giant fake Gucci sunglasses, thermos, half eaten burrito, and four pairs of climbing shoes cascaded out of the big wall sized haul bag.

“Four pairs of shoes?” Steve yelped, uncontrollably astonished.

“Yee-ahh” I coolly responded. “One for warm-ups, a pair you are currently trying to break in, your red-point pair, and a prototype pair you are testing. (like, duh)

“Oh, I see” He said with mild, genuine interest.

Accommodating Steve’s alpine inclinations, I had planned on climbing a ‘long route’, a four pitch 5.11d (author’s note: Steve House CAN rock climb, very capably, in fact). The rack consisted of twelve quick draws. Call it a fluke, (I’m convinced the alpine Gods were smiling down on Steve) but by the time we reached the fourth pitch, weather had come in and we were in a full-blown storm. By Smith Rock standards that means flurries and twenty mile an hour wind.

We topped out and quickly began the rappels (two whole ones). We reached the ground and Steve systematically began coiling the rope and before I could point out that I had a rope bag, he had everything packed and was pointed in the direction of the trail out. “Steve, it’s snowing, I’m not going anywhere” I contently sat down under an overhang and pulled out of my pack a down coat, dark chocolate and two beers. Steve’s eyes widened.

“BEER!”

“It’s a long hike out” I explained.

“It’s seven minutes” he gestured toward the parking lot, his van visible.

“It’s uphill.” I protested.

He squeezed in next to me, out of the elements and accepted my beverage offering.

“Oooh, this is good”

“Told you” I said flatly and handed him chocolate. I noticed he was shivering and enviously eyeing my shroud of down.

“Rookie mistake, Steve” I said mercilessly.

“But it was seventy-two degrees, high pressure and sunny when we left the parking lot” he whined.

“Light and fast, fucked and freezing, lost and lonely” I preached and handed him the last beer.