Bailing Gumbies

Even after receiving the gift of life from our friends Dave and Micah at the base of Half Dome, the hike down the death slabs was a brutal endeavor. Once again it was hot when we started our descent, and the sun broiled us mercilessly. Its reflection off the slabs seemed to amplify its effect, increasing our suffering logarithmically. Both Dan and I drank about a liter and a half of our friends' water when we met them at the base of the route. But that was after more than 12 hours without any liquids. Prior to that, we had been conservative with what little water we did have. Although our stomachs felt distended after chugging what we could, our bodies were still suffering from prolonged dehydration.

Dave, despondent over not
getting to climb...but he
gave us his water!

On the hike down, this manifested itself in all kinds of fun and interesting ways. We both had headaches and nausea, along with the obvious fatigue. I was confused and lethargic. I stumbled on seemingly every other step. Urination was painful and, thank god, infrequent. But the worst of all of these symptoms was the moodiness. I had no right to be the least bit grouchy, seeing as we had just climbed one of our dream routes in good style; nevertheless, I was full-on cantankerous. I had to restrain myself from yelling at a friendly European couple that passed us on the hike down. How dare they? I also remember feeling pissed off at Dan for not thinking of asking Dave and Micah to leave us more water for the descent. In my present state of mind, that was clearly his mistake. When we finally made it off the slabs onto the forest trail, I felt like punching a French hiker for not knowing exactly how far away the bus stop was ("You'd be speaking Deutsch if it wasn't for us, you ignorant Frog!" I said to myself).

But the coup de grace came on the bus, only one stop away from the Curry Village Pizza Deck and our salvation. The bus pulled over to let off a group of hikers, and one of them had the audacity to ask for directions to a trailhead. The bus driver indulged, and took her sweet time pointing him in the right direction. "There are ten hikers in that group. Doesn't one of them have a fucking map?!" I yelled. This time it wasn't just in my head. If they heard me, nobody paid attention, and soon enough the bus stopped at Curry Village. I leveled an icy gaze at the bus driver as I disembarked. That'll teach her to waste my time. ("I just climbed Half Dome. Who the hell are you?")

Minutes after getting off that bus I had a Gatorade in hand and all of that negativity suddenly started to dissolve with each gulp. Relief from the immediate discomfort of dehydration seemed to accelerate the half-life of Type 2 Fun.

It's incredible how easily the discomfort and uncertainty of a climb can fade from memory, crowded out by the expanding ego and certitude that come with success. Mere hours after cursing at a friendly bus driver, I sat in Curry Village--hydrated and surrounded by granite monoliths and pizza--thinking that climbing Half Dome was the single coolest thing I had ever done. Soon Dan and I were relaxing, beers in hand, nostalgically glossing over our climb while wearing rose-colored glasses:

• We hadn't really been that thirsty. 

• We never actually would have taken another party's cache of water had Dave and Micah not been there to help us out.

• We need to do something else; faster, lighter...bigger.

Well...there's only one thing in Yosemite Valley that is bigger than the NW Face of Half Dome, and that's the Big Stone itself. El Capitan. Our confidence, inflated to galactic proportions by our recent success, was eclipsing the better part of valor. We decided right then that we were going to climb The Nose with only a single rest day.

The Nose of El Capitan, as seen from the approach trail.

The North Cascades: An Onsight, A Bail, and an Alpine Adventure

It was early August in DC, and most of the city was enjoying vacation. For the unfortunate few who were left without an escape plan, life oozed by like molasses. Our aggressive training schedule for the upcoming October trip to Yosemite had me psyched to climb, but I was bored of Seneca quartz and New River sandstone. I felt like I was missing something in my climbing. It had been too long since I last felt the exhilaration and uncertainty of casting off on an adventure climb. Call it serendipity, or perhaps just blind luck, but in the midst of these feelings, my buddy Spencer e-mailed me and asked if I'd like to meet him in the North Cascades for some alpine climbing. When I read his e-mail, I knew immediately what I had been lacking: I needed to fill up on some mountains. I accepted his invitation, and within a couple of days plans were laid to meet in the Cascades in two weeks.

With little time to plan, we immediately began spit balling. We e-mailed back and forth, sharing links from Mountain Project to climbs that looked like they might possess the right combination of challenge, adventure, and access. We only had five days, so we knew we wouldn't be able to trudge too far into the wilds. Plus, I wanted to maximize the Yosemite training potential of this trip, which meant that pure rock routes would be the flavor du jour. That ruled out some of the big boys of the range. But not to worry; this was the Cascades, after all. There were still plenty of climbs that fit our narrow selection criteria.

Liberty Bell Group.
Photo from Mountain Project.

With our hopes and dreams for this trip laid out, it soon became clear that the routes in Washington Pass were good candidates. More specifically, the Liberty Bell group had a number of clean rock spires that appeared to possess the right combination of good rock, challenging climbing, and access.

The Liberty Bell group, which includes five granite spires, is tucked neatly into a hairpin turn in the North Cascades Highway. Conveniently, this meant that the approach would be trivial by Cascades standards. We decided that these routes would be a good starting point to get a feel for the rock and the range as a whole.

Alpine Starts and Classic Climbs

...Just not in the same place.

That's the magic of the Front Range. Too much ice on the route? Retreat to Eldo. Heavy rain? Down to Eldo. Numb toes? Eldo. High winds? Eldo. Tired? Eldo.

No wonder there are so many accidents there.

On the menu were Pervertical Santuary (IV 5.11a), Syke's Sickle (III 5.9+), The Barb (III 5.10-), and Directissima (III 5.10b). Pervertical had us excited for its hard climbing and prime setting. Syke's won over our aesthetic sense with its direct line up the center of a gorgeous piece of rock, but it left some technical challenge to be desired. With The Barb next door on the same piece of rock representing a classic 5.10, maybe we could ride perfect weather into a link-up. Directissima would be a shorter day option and offer a foray into wide crack climbing. Thus, objectives were formed.

Micah topping out Yellow Spur on its immaculate knife edge

Weather and success would dictate our selections. For Saturday, with a marginal forecast (30-40% chance of precipitation), we would try the least committing: Syke's with The Barb link-up option if time permitted and weather cleared. We made this decision on Friday after my intro to Eldorado Canyon, first the mega-classic Yellow Spur (5.9 6 pitches) and then a bonus, Calypso/Raggae (5.6/5.8, 2 pitches). I took the 5.10 variations on P1 and P5 on YS (the first one I recommend, second one I don't) and smiled widely with the excellent climbing and abundant stopper placements. In preparation for an early start, we left Eldo by 6pm for RMNP. A few campground shinanigans later we were racked and inflating pads.

Bailing on life

What would it take to bail on life? Do people do this? Is it even feasible? What would become of me? What would happen if I gave up my cherry government job, my nice Capitol Hill apartment, health care, vacation, and the comfort and reassurance of a steady paycheck? And what if I gave this all up, not to swing like a monkey to another plumb branch, but rather to just exist -- sell everything except for my car and my climbing gear and travel around, climb, see the world … just exist? Would my friends and family be disappointed? Would I regret my decision?

Obviously this has been weighing on me lately. The “why” isn’t essential for the purposes of this post. Suffice it to say that I’ve been enjoying the safety and escapism of having this murmur of a plan in the back of my head for some time now. But only recently has it crescendoed from a distant tinnitus between the ears to a persistent, brassy bellow. It has now become something I must do. But the “why” isn’t essential. The “how” and the “what” are the important questions.

People joke about this all the time. A bad week at work or a lousy run of luck will have any average citizen contemplating dropping off the grid. But does anyone ever really do it? Anyone in real life, that is? Movies and literature abound with characters giving up on the “main stream” and following a more … OK, fuck, I’ll say it … spiritual path. My favorite example has to be the second diner scene in Pulp Fiction, when Jules explains to Vincent that he wants to “walk the earth and get in adventures.” (Approx. 2:15 on the video.)

Spank me and call me n00bie

Photo from mountainproject.com.

I have rock rash from my navel to my nipples. My fingertips are oozing some kind of clear, viscous fluid. My shoulders feel like I was drawn and quartered. And my left heel is mushy like a bruised peach. All of this, and more, after only a day and a half of cragging. Each ache represents a lesson and a precipitous reminder that I still have much to learn about rock craft.

Each of these injuries-cum-elucidations occurred over a single weekend at the Shawangunks -- my virgin outing onto this storied band of cliffs. And what a weekend it was. Despite only getting on five routes the entire time, I may have taken more away from this weekend than any other single cragging trip in my climbing career. The reason for this is quite simple: failure. Out of the five routes Dan and I attempted, we sent only one -- our warm-up on Saturday, Bonnie’s Roof Direct. On the other four routes, we failed, sometimes spectacularly. Everyone knows that failure is a much better teacher than success. Failure leaves you asking “why?” whereas success has you entreating, “what’s next?”

I will catalogue some of these hard-earned lessons as a reminder to myself -- and hopefully for the benefit of others. But along with that, allow me to share some thoughts and reverie on the excellent climbing in New Paltz!

Gunks Initiation

Vicious hooligans beat me up in the middle of the night.  They were of the usual New Paltz crowd--mustached, tattooed and friendly with a hint of sarcasm--but they were changed in the after-hours, as if all of their good day-energy required counterweight in depraved acts.  With glassy eyes and a moan, they kicked me in the gut, stomped on my neck, and dragged me so that my palms grated across the pavement.  It all happened while I was soundly asleep, but I knew what had gone down.  It was the simplest explanation for the way I felt upon waking in the back of Alex's station wagon Sunday morning.

It couldn't have been the climbing we did in the Trapps on Saturday.  Sure, Alex had never been to the Gunks before, and I was excited to provide him with a strong initiation.  Yeah, it was brutally hot and humid.  Yes, we spent 4 hours exerting our every fiber on the punctuated V3 cruxes of The Sting (5.11+), with its little finger ledges and giant throws up the wall; and the rest of the daylight scrapping up the three pitches of Carbs and Caffeine (5.11-), Alex taking 30' hero whips off of the final roof, 150' up in the air.  But crag climbing has never thrashed me so.  It must have been hooligans.

That said, once we dragged ourselves back to the wall on Sunday, I was hardly prepared to lead Stirrup Trouble (5.10b).  The unlikely looking climb took every spare unit of my physical and emotional energy.  I hung at the low crux.  I made stupid choices with gear and rope management on the traverse.  I pumped and embraced the plunge on the upper crux.  A black pebbly faced vulture actually landed within arm's reach as I scratched up the last couple of bulges.  It knew I was just about cooked in the hot sun, salted to perfection with dried sweat.

Off belay at the top, I thought it appropriate for Russ Clune, Fritz Wiessner, or some other Gunks hero to pop out of the woods and revoke my climbing privileges.  I bummed that Alex had witnessed the performance.  I used to be so proud of my onsight record--this sullied it all.

I found a new way to look at it over a few cool beers and a schnitzel at the Brauhaus.  Sometimes, when you try really hard, it feels like you're going in the opposite direction.  A proud onsight record is folly in perfectionism.  Bailure is part of the process.

MP.com photo from The Sting

Strangers on a Bight

Email reply, August 30, 2010.

Andrew
Interesting timing with your partner bailing. My partner just bailed on me this afternoon for South Platte or Lumpy Ridge for the weekend. Still interested in the Diamond? I've been eying it up for a few years but haven't been. The Diamond might be tall proposition for having never met but we can talk. We could at least think about Lumpy. Which route on the Diamond, the casual?

I'm out of town for the week, returning Friday afternoon. What was your plan for heading to CO? Give me a call sometime.
Dave

Andy and I made acquaintance at the Denver airport Friday evening and went on to climb the Casual Route Saturday, September 4. Here, Andy moves into the crux. Sometimes two bails do make a send!

the patagonia trip: Attempt on Taller del Sol

We planned to sleep until 5am, but I couldn't.  Maybe it had something to do with the coffee I drank with the Dutch or maybe I was just buzzing with anticipation.  I looked out from my nook under our boulder, watched the stars and day-bright moon, and found high pressure every time I checked my watch-barometer.  Finally, I could take no more and rose at 4am.  The towers, Escudo, Fortulessa and Tridente shined by the moonlight.  The air was still and comfortable.  Life was perfect.

I woke Dave and made the case for getting up a little early.  I can't sleep, and...come on.  Then we made breakfast with the last of our cereal and some tea, and crawled up the talus to the base of the route.

It was light by the time we reached the top, and cold.  We took our time to survey the wall and find our route.  We needed the day to warm enough for our fingers to be nimble.

With much uncertainty of the route start, Dave racked up and led towards a promising crack system.  On our second pitch, Ivo and his friend traversed below, on their way to climb the Monzino Route.

Ivo had to leave Paine for work the day Dave and I did the Monzino. He said he cried having to leave on a calm, clear day.  Then he saw the forecast for the big break in the weather, snubbed his work and returned with ten more days of food.  We were glad to see him.

We yelled down as he passed below and asked if he knew where Taller Del Sol started. He called up in his broken English that he thought the route was further to our right, but he wasn't certain. 

Dave and I decided to trend right when we could.

Then Marten and Gerka passed below us.  Marten climbed Taller Del Sol on a previous trip, so we knew he would set us straight. "It's over to the right side of this pillar," he pointed, "but you're definitely on something, so you should continue if you can."

As they disappeared, on their way to climb Monzino, Dave reached a blank section on our line.  We could go no further.  He set a good nut and lowered to my stance atop the first pitch of easy slab.

It was a perfect day and here we were, all false starts and where do we go?

We pulled the bail rope and the tip got jammed in a crack above me.  I raged in my head.

We rappelled our free rope to solid ground where I could throw my wrath into the line.  I whipped, pulled and yarded.  With some heavy bouncing, it came free.  I took the minor victory, pulled myself out of my frustration and aimed to enjoy the rest of the day.  As late as it was, we had missed our last chance to top out, but at least we could do some climbing.

I racked and started the first pitch of easy slab. Then there was a tricky pitch of 5.10 with a crux streaming with water.  I didn't know if I was capable of the moves, but kept extending myself into the next setion and somehow succeeded from stance to stance.  I was charged as I belayed Dave.

The next pitch was a little easier, 5.9, but still very wet. I took my time getting through the crux, then made good progress to the belay, ending the pitch a little short of the streaming wet fixed anchor.  I was ready for Dave to take the next pitch.

Dave climbed the 5.10+ offwidth pitch with typical no-big-deal style.  I figured offwidths are a matter of applying requisite energy, so I opened the valves and let it all come streaming out like a car lot blower man.  Like the blower man, I didn't go anywhere gracefully.  I'm sure it would have been easier without a pack, and I did follow clean in the end, but I'm not sure I would have led it smoothly as Dave had.

Now Dave was warmed up and he happily embarked on the next 5.9 pitch.

It is interesting how one's mood shifts between leading and following. You might expect worry to come under the pressure of being on lead, rather than while enjoying the safety of a belay stance. However, it is at the belay stance where you have the time and mental space to consider the commitment of your position.  I suppose experience helps you recognize the swing and take it more in stride.  I still get the unfocused dread, but it's starting to make way for in-the-moment excitement.

Dave's second pitch was superb. Almost the entirety was a three sided elevator shaft where you place your back on one side and an outstretched leg pushing on the opposite wall, in the ideal position to savor the exposure below.

On the sixth pitch--the second 5.10+ pitch I'd ever attempted to lead--I led with a fluidity I hadn't experienced before.  It was as if I was too tired to worry if my interpretation of the next sequence was correct.  Everything had worked out so far.  I enjoyed my relaxed disposition, but thought I could be getting close to the edge.

Ahead of me laid a thin finger crack I should be able to lay back and then grab a large hold to regain composure. That's it?  A couple 5.10 moves and I get that big jug to hang on?  Easy.


I checked the micro cam I placed at chest level, slotted my fingers into the fold before me and pulled into the moves.  I raised my right hand to the next gap in the crack, then matched with my left, foot shuffled and repeated until I could make a big reach up to the jug I spied from below.  But it wasn't a jug! It was a marginal pinch.

Shaking with exertion, I tried to reverse the moves. The thought of the last cam flashed in my mind, but, before the image could fruit into a coherent thought, my world began to accelerate. Just as the feeling of acceleration registered, my stomach landed in my gut and I came to a very soft stop.

I was only a couple feet above my gear when I fell, but with rope stretch I fell 25'.  I was okay.  Just a little scrape on my arm.  Woah!  My heart pounded.

"I'm good," I called to Dave in a strange voice, "I'm going to batman up now."

I was pulling on the rope, walking myself up the rock when my forearm cramped solid and pinky curled tight on the rope.  It was the adrenaline jamming my system.  I beat the offending hand against my leg and thrust the curled finger in my mouth so I could pull it straight.

Just ten feet from the next belay stance and I was reduced to a cramping wreck and my ability to move with a modicum of grace was shot.  So I did what I had to.  I grabbed the highest piece of gear, pulled up on a shaky arm and plugged a new piece above.  Then I grabbed that one and repeated. This "french freeing" thuggery seemed like more work than actually climbing, but it felt secure. Finally I clipped the anchor.

"I think it's time we start rappelling," Dave called up.

No! I cried internally.

We had come so far and had even completed all of the most difficult pitches. All that laid ahead were a couple 5.10 pitches, then easier ground to the top. Alas, it would take another four hours, probably five, to reach the summit. This was supposed to be our tour de force to capture the summit block. It would be so great to reach the true peak by such a direct and beautiful route.

I looked across the valley, upon the vast wall of Escudo. The sun was just beginning to dip below its edge.  It was 930pm--two hours before total darkness.

But the weather is so fine! We could push into the night.

If we had more experience and fitness we could push it. Besides, if we were to continue, Dave would have to pick up my slack.  I was cooked.  It was time to go down.

I carefully rigged the rappel and cleaned the pitch back to Dave's stance. I was bitter about reversing our progress, but also psyched that we got so far.  I had climbed only a few 5.9 and 5.10 pitches in my almost two years of climbing, but never in a sustained effort and certainly never in such a threatening environment.

Down we went into the dark.

When climbing, you feel in control of your fate, at least to some degree, but while descending, it's more like you're the sucker in a morbid game of dice. At the end of each rappel you wait in suspense as you pull the rope, hoping it doesn't jam on any of the myriad features you used to ascend the wall.  If it does you're guaranteed an epic, and you may be forced into such dubious activities as ascending the stuck line, or cutting the rope and making numerous short rappels where you'll have many more chances to get the rope stuck.  In the worst case you could end up stranded.  Bait for the next storm.  Combine this world of uncertainty with fatigue, dehydration and hunger and you feel a vertigo of boredom, horror, exhilaration, fatigue and that unfocused dread.

My mind tried to escape by thinking of family and girlfriend, and such pleasures as a warm pizza and a casual afternoon with friends.

1000' of rappels later, after a few scares from stuck ropes that eventually came free, we regained terra firma.  What relief!  But the relief was short, as we still had a two hour descent through loose talus in the dark.

As zombies we descended from the wall, back to our advanced camp where our last can of tuna and packet of soup waited.

We thought we were done with Paine.

the patagonia trip: Bailure

We woke to find the same wretched conditions that plagued us throughout the night. Our largest problem, we discussed, would be the high winds, which we could hear as a constant jet roar high on the ridge of our route.

In everyday life, wind is but a nuisance. Here, were a characteristically Patagonian gust to hit us as we traversed the ridge over the 2000' drop, it could spell disaster.

"What would you guys do if I wasn't here?" Christian asked.

"We'd wait as long as possible while still leaving enough time to comfortably finish our route today. If the weather was still bad, we would retreat," I suggested.

And with Christian's approval, we went back to bed with the time of our final decision postponed for two hours, until 11am.

I fell back to a wonderful sleep in my soggy carapice and woke to christian calling for action. It was 1030am and we needed to be on the move at 11am.