Mental shifts in the dark canyon: how perspectives change when we Tague our Time

(contributed by Rowan Hill, partner in silly things and purveyor of fine cheeses)

Most of our thoughts are not based strictly in reality. I work in wilderness therapy with young adults whose minds are constantly sabotaging them. Through this experience I have become more adept at noticing when my own thoughts start to lift off from the grounded 2+2=4 level, to the wild and fantastical realms where climbing a little harder equates to being more loving and more valuable as a person. I was relatively grounded when I set the long term goal that I would some day climb Tague Yer Time in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. “Some day” meaning in a few years when I was regularly sending 5.12 on gear and had a few more grade V climbs under my belt. It was from that grounded mindscape that things started to twist and evolve into the un-grounded state of expanding possibility, and suddenly Drew Thayer and I had concrete plans to climb the route this year...in two months...I still had never actually sent a 5.12 pitch on gear, and the route had 5 of them, and 5 more that checked in at 5.11...and the gear is really thin, which I also don’t have a ton of experience with. But as I said, this is a mindset not based in reality, a place that creates greatness and kills people who say things like, “dude, dude, check this out” before doing something excessively stupid.

With Drew in Rhode Island and myself in Durango we planned in bits and spurts and began to work out the logistics. We would climb the line in two days, spending the night on the comfy “two boulder bivy.” When the day came my stomach churned with anticipation. We had a lot going for us, we felt strong, we knew that we can climb efficiently when necessary and we were familiar with that section of wall, having climbed both The Flakes and Astrodog together in good style.

We rappelled to the bottom of the canyon, leaving our haul bag with sleeping bags, plenty of water, and even some cinnamon buns waiting for us on the bivy. I took the first lead up a pitch of fun .11 face climbing past 3 bolts and some small gear to the base of a beautiful tips corner. Drew came up to me and jumped right into the meat of it, falling at the crux of the pitch several times and popping two nuts before finding just the right placement to hold him on his next attempt. He battled his way to the top of the pitch and I followed, falling and resting my way up the corner. It was hard, but we were doing it, and the climbing was soooo good. Another short .11 pitch for me and another .12 pitch for Drew, but this time something happened that neither of us had ever done before; we went for the redpoint.

Drew fell at the crux and asked to be lowered. He pulled the rope and tried again...and fell again, and then asked me if I wanted to try. This concept was so new it felt like cheating. We’re allowed to take our time and work the moves? I thought multipitch climbing was all about just getting to the top. I know that Tommy Caldwell works pitches half way up El Cap, but I honestly don’t compare myself to him, ever. I tied into the sharp end and headed up for the tricky looking sequence that had shaken Drew off. I clipped his highest piece and went for it, delicately smearing and palming my way through the thin corner until the crack opened up. The rest of the pitch was fun and secure climbing and soon I was at the anchor. Holy shit, I just sent my first pitch of 5.12 trad on the middle of South Chasm View wall, what a trip. I brought Drew up and using the key palm move he climbed the pitch smoothly without falling. The rest of the climbing up to the bivy was fun and varied. We sat on the big ledge in our underwear and marveled at our success thus far.

The next morning we awoke on the ledge and saw that our friends who were joining us for breakfast were only two rappels away from us. Nick Chambers and Tucker Hancock were going to climb The Flakes that day. We bustled about to get the stove going for some cinnamon buns, which we had already decided will become a staple on future climbing trips. This time it didn’t work out very well, we ended up melting the plastic on the Jetboil stove and were left with warmed dough. Tucker and Nick still appreciated the gesture and moved on with their rappels, leaving us alone again with another full day of hard climbing ahead of us. The first pitch off the ledge was another unlikely looking corner, similar to the two hard pitches the day before. Drew lead it, getting through it with rests in between several tough sections and then braving some runout and very thin face climbing to get to the anchor. We decided that this was the hardest pitch so far. At this point we started regretting that we had forgotten the topo in the car and looked up unsure which of a few potential systems held the most promise. I lead up some face and found a bolt, and kept going, encouraged that this must be the right way, only to come to a corner that didn’t protect and looked hard. I turned around and tried going the other way from the bolt, and sure enough, this system was good and took me to an established anchor, just in time to bring Drew up before it started to rain.

We decided it would be best to continue, so Drew pulled the ladders out of his bag and began to aid the next pitch in rain, hail and thunder. Some small portable speakers helped to keep our spirits high. By the time Drew had finished the pitch it had stopped raining and the rock was relatively dry. I tried to follow it free, but ended up pulling on some gear to get through a damp lichen-encrusted crux. Drew was excited to lead free again now that it had stopped raining, so I gave him the next pitch, which involved some crack switches, nut-tool gardening, and classic runout mank that he braved beautifully up to the base of the crux.

The crux of the whole route is an overhanging seam with a few small fingerlocks and I couldn’t even get off the ledge initially. I decided to aid the short crack and work it on toprope. Thus I embarked on my first bit of aid climbing. I loved it, as a means to an end, which was working what amounted to a boulder problem 1500 feet over the Gunnison River. I worked the moves on toprope and figured out a sequence that seemed possible. Drew got on too and refined the sequence a bit. We switched back and I climbed the pitch without falling on toprope and then so did Drew. We marveled at how things were working out.  We had just had a proper session, with music and everything, working out some awesome moves in the middle of the most intimidating playground in the state.

Suddenly this place infamous for forcing people to find out what they are made of felt friendly; we had found a climb that was just plain fun…but it wasn’t quite over yet. It started to rain again and the sun left us. Grabbing onto loose, wet blocks in the dark, using hands that threatened to go on strike, I remembered that it was still the Black after all. Tired and scared I clawed myself to the rim and onto horizontal terrain. Drew cruised up to me, unfazed by the wet night; the ever-intrepid rascal of adventure gave me a big hug and I realized how grateful I was for our friendship. By now it was 10 pm and we were ravenous. This time, with a cast iron skillet in the car, we could make the rest of our cinnamon buns in the fashion they deserved. We both agreed they were the best cinnamon buns we had ever tasted, and that Tague Yer Time was one of the best, and definitely the hardest, climbs we had ever done...Maybe we can come back and free it at some point in the distant future…

-Rowan Hill a.k.a "the Rogue" is one of my best buddies and steadfast climbing partners. He's always been strong as a Swiss hay-baler, but was more of a pebble wrestler when we met. When I convinced him to climb The Flakes (V 5.10+ X) with me as his first grade V climb ever and we topped out 2000 ft of arduous cracks before dark, I knew he had grit too. I try to keep him around because he always shows me better beta, he usually has quality aged cheese on his person, and he gives the best hugs in the four corners region. For a hairy swissman.

Turns out you need the "frying pan attachment". Result: hole in glove, melted stove, warm dough.

It's nice when friends drop in for breakfast halfway up a 2000 ft wall

Nick and Tucker preparing to drop back into the chasm

Cinnamon rolls done right

Dreaming, Waking, and Remembering what Matters

The Dream

In May 2012 I leaned against the rail of the overlook on the North Chasm View Wall on a balmy afternoon, staring into the dizzying expanse of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. The view from the overlook is dramatic enough to inspire vertigo in the stoutest of hearts; overhanging rock drops away from sight and the wall comes back into view some thousand feet below, then continues near-vertically to the jumbled chaos of boulders and scree bisected by the raging Gunnison River.

I had just climbed The Cruise with two new friends, and we had found the classic route pretty cruiser, topping out casually in the early afternoon. Staring into the wild gulf of air carved by the river over eons, I felt a mixture of pride and humility tinged with the dark shades of fear. Pride because we’d rallied a grade four route up a steep wall in good time and generally enjoyed ourselves; humility because I knew The Cruise didn’t even ascend the tallest part of the North Chasm View Wall; and fear of unknown possibilities: there were routes directly beneath us of an entirely different character, routes that I knew would require much more than I could give. I couldn’t know it then, but I would venture closer to the edge of that unknown horizon, and seven months later the airy steeps of Stoned Oven would force me to take a harder look at myself than I’d bargained for.

We looked across to the attractive South Chasm View Wall and I could make out the salient features of Astrodog, which I’d climbed the year before. (Who climbs Astrodog as their first Black Canyon route? Coming out of college, we were so full of hubris.) To our surprise, we watched a climber move right from the two-boulder bivy—away from the obvious crack systems of Astrodog—and begin ascending a seemingly blank face. Where was that guy even going? We tried to see his line, but couldn’t make out any features. Someone had binoculars and we passed them around, trying to spot a crack system, but from that distance all we could see was a man moving upward into a shield of blank, smooth granite. I imagined we were witnessing some ridiculous aid ascent, a steely-eyed fiend hooking his way up intermittent nubbins.

Some research revealed the existence of a route up that clean face, a hard FREE route in fact called Tague Yer Time, which involves sustained 5.12 climbing up thin seams. I poured over the description on Mountain Project and remembered the chilling awe I felt watching that climber across the canyon. It was a ludicrous quantum leap beyond my abilities, but a seed had been planted; when I day-dreamed about the canyon, the name of the route drifted around the edges of my thoughts like quivering pine needles at the periphery of vision. I heard the whisper but focused on the world in front of me: life and love and trying to redpoint 5.12 on bolts.

Awakening

Upon returning to the Colorado western slope this spring, I was beyond excited to join my good friend and fellow adventurer Rowan Hill in driving over Red Mountain pass through gorgeous mountains toward the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. During the midst of a New England March, while I was worn down by differential equations, incessant rain, and no way to scratch my itch for climbing rock, Rowan sent me a few topos of routes in the Black; among them was Tague Yer Time. Of course I knew about the route and had drooled over the description on Mountain Project, but I had calmly set that book on the upper shelf of “in a few years.” After all, the Donahue-Ogden masterpiece sports 5 pitches with 5.12 climbing, two of them sustained tips-crack dihedrals. I hadn’t yet redpointed the .11+ routes I’d attempted in the canyon, so solid 5.12? Out of the question.

I’m a collector of maps and guidebooks. I think there’s something to be said for holding a topo in your hands. If you want to summit a peak, buy the map and hang it on your wall; if your goal is a climb, pin photos above your bed and pin the topo in the kitchen. There is magic unleashed when we give our dreams more substance by pushing them into the tangible world as intentions.

That topo, which represented the idea of climbing a route as hard as Tague yer Time, spearheaded a new motivation to train. I did my coursework efficiently so I could hit the climbing gym three times every week; I started climbing routes twice without rest to build endurance; I worked four-by-fours on the tweaky boulder problems until my fingertips stung. In bad weather I would enter the Lysol-spandex-top-40 aura of the university gym and submit myself to punishing workouts with weights and a ludicrous device called the elliptical trainer, with no other rationale than believing the ability to keep pushing while my lungs burned and my body wanted to collapse would be a good card to have in my back pocket. An inspiring British climber Dave Macleod says you have to be willing to train the capacity to try hard.  He climbs E11, so I figure his advice is worth something.

Awake

We trained hard, we made our preparations, and on a warm morning in May I tossed ropes from the Astro-Slog rappel anchor and began rapping into the canyon with a haul-bag dangling from my waist, something I never really envisioned doing. We were amped to spend two days giving our best effort on a beautiful route in the wild canyon, and even more psyched to be joined by our buddies Nick and Tucker, who planned to drop in for breakfast the next morning on their way down to climb The Flakes. After a day of hard, fun climbing we settled into our spacious ledge bivy and watched the Chasm View Wall turn golden in the sunset. We woke to a glorious morning, stretched on our mid-cliff perch, and served up coffee and cinnamon rolls (a bit soggy, unfortunately, due to technical stove failure) just in time for Tucker and Nick to drop in for a bite. As he’d promised, Tucker reached inside his pack and pulled out a ripe juicy grapefruit. Luxury in the middle of Colorado’s scariest canyon! We were stoked beyond belief, and our energy carried me straight into a punishing encounter with the crux corner pitch, which involved much desperate groping and multiple whips on RPs.

I could reminisce about how rad it was, how awesome it was to spend such a focused time in sync with a good friend, how it was to transcend my personal limits in such an inspiring arena. And although we didn’t send the crux pitches, it was transcendent for us. We each lead hard pitches at our limit, and for the first time ever I lowered off, pulled the rope, and tied in for a redpoint burn in the middle of a wall.  On the sustained crux corner, stemming at my limit long enough to precisely place a tiny micro-nut and then launching into another 5.12 boulder problem forced me to dig deep into my mental and physical reserves and represented the culmination of 5 years of dedication to the art of climbing. But all that was just fun and games, what really mattered was late that night, staring down into the darkness of the canyon searching for lights, then waking the next morning at dawn to frost on my pillow and thinking immediately of those guys. We threw our sleeping kit into the car and raced off to the rim, ready to rap down and fix lines, ready to do anything to find our friends. The boys hadn’t made it up that evening, and The Flakes is a long, serious route, and it was a cold night.

Pulling my sore body over the canyon rim has been a cathartic experience on every climb I’ve completed in the Black, but despite all the terror and doubt I’ve felt on my own journeys, the relief was far greater as we ran through the bushes and saw our friends topping out just after dawn. Their faces were flat and their eyes set in the thousand-yard stare, the sign of true and utter exhaustion. Slowed by the afternoon rain, they’d done what they had to do, moving slowly and safely through many of the route’s difficulties in total darkness. It wasn’t pretty, but sometimes success isn’t. And in the Black, success is often simply grabbing the soil on the rim and belly flopping on sweet flat ground.

It’s so good to remember what really matters: the people we share the journey with. Send or dangle, crush or epic, style only matters to a limited extent. We can set external standards to measure our exploits by, but what is it that actually endures in our hearts? Soon all memory of the climb will wax to a rosy hue with the inexhaustible march of time; it is the people we share our stories with who will always matter the most.

Breakfast on the Two Boulder Bivy

Dude! Cinnamon Rolls!

Thunder rolls, rain falls down, time to pull out the ladders and push the rope higher the old-fashioned way.

So tired we had to wake him up for second breakfast. There's no place like Kate's Place in Ridgeway to begin your recovery after an all-nighter on the wall. 

"I'm starting to feel a little more human," he said after we devoured our eggs and hash in reverent silence.

There and Back Again...a tale inspired by Bilbo Baggins

Well, we tried. It's one thing to top out Astrodog and stumble through the bushes muttering platitudes to tourists and crack a beer on the tailgate. It's another thing to top out, mutter same platitudes, and look across the canyon and realize the full significance of the beer still being on the other side. Didn't have time, heat, or light for the Scenic Cruise, but we sure did get to enjoy the cruise gulley both directions! Next season...


And thanks to Noah Gostout, the wise, for his suggestion that we did not succeed because we didn't wear jorts. "Men in jorts," he asserts, "don't need daylight, heat, or time." I'll have to ponder the ramifications of that one...

The permit I've been dreaming of filling out for a long time.  Well I guess this wasn't the last one.

autumn morning light in the Black 

38 degree rock + no sun = cold hands

David sampling the goodness

 David high on the route, getting psyched to send the crux.

wahoo! no matter how late it is a Tyrolean across a raging river is pretty fun

young, unemployed, and setting a new standard for STOKE

David Fay and I have had a very productive fall season in the Front Range, with great adventures every weekend. It helps that he's not working, so every time I drag my tired ass back home on Friday he's there full of piss and vinegar, packing my car telling me to hurry up so we can head out.

Recently he set a new standard for the stoke of the young and unemployed, when on my way back from a field trip with my geology class I received this masterpiece in my email inbox. I never before received planning info for a climbing mission that involved labelled figures, or a scale bar. At least David learned something in college. Geology nerds, woohoo!

This is surely a new frontier of trip planning, and I hope it will inspire future generations to get mad STOKED and engage in crushing on an unprecedented level:

Risk Analysis

With the government debacle waging on, the prospect of an open National Park appears smaller and smaller each day. Therefore I have taken the initiative to outline the risks and rewards associated with a North-South Rim link up.

We have the benefit of entering and leaving the depths of the canyon under the cover of night. The North Rim of the Black Canyon barely qualifies as a national park with no entrance fees, dirt roads and a lonely ranger station. Even though its only 1/4 of a mile from the South Rim (as the bird flies), its at least a 2 hour drive or a burly descent into the chasms of the Black. This 1/4 mile of land stands to be so heinously unappealing that no permanent trails have been built to enter it from the South and it seems only the deranged attempt to venture there. Just as climbers have been left at peace the last few weeks on El Cap, I expect that we will not encounter another soul within the canyon. Yet, I believe it is important that we do not completely top out the South Chasm View Wall. Standing at the foot of pedestrian trails leave us susceptible up to unnecessary risks.

Figure 1

--It's safe to assume that roads going into National Parks will be closed. This is an optimistic parking location, within the park. This route would add 3.1 miles of flat walking to the beginning and end of our day. An extended approach may require bikes to access the trailhead (think beater bikes).

Figure 2

--Driving directions from Caramillo St with alternate approach beta.

Figure 3

--Close up of alternate approach.  A direct westward approach from Highway 92 allows us to join the Black Canyon Rd within the park, diminishing the duration of time in which we are exposed.  And increasing the probability of gaining proximal access to the trailhead.  Scale bar in bottom left included for reference.  

A Short List of Risks and Possible Outcomes

Worst Case Scenario: We walk into the park at 2:30am. We are confronted. We are asked to leave and escorted out. (I will bring my Nation Parks Pass to encourage positive interactions)

Middle Case Scenario: We climb to top of South Chasm View Wall. We are confronted. We are asked to leave. We have to hitchhike back to our car on the North Rim, but we sent Astro Dog and we're stoked.

Best Case Scenario: We park at the trailhead and scamper down the SOB gully under the cover of night. We find the tyrolean first try and Drew crosses it first with both packs. I'm stoked so I walk across the rope like a slackline, balancing on top. We climb the first few pitches by headlamp and arrive at the crux just as the sun is rising. I go for the onsight and send it! Then we figure that we have a little extra time and that Drew has been dying to send this pitch, so we pull the ropes and he gives it a go on the sharp end. Drew paces a bomber purple C3 and commits. Having dialed in the moves on his last few gos, he flows through the sequences and we top out Astro Dog by 10am. We return to the tyrolean with enough daylight to deem a light lunch by the river both worthy and necessary. After feasting on watermelon and cantaloupe stashed in the water on our way over to keep them cool, we turn our sights towards The Cruise. The Cruise is only 5.10--in Black--so we, well, cruise it and top out as the sun sets over the horizon. We get naked. And walk back to the car in the dark. As far as we can tell, nobody saw us.

A Short List of Rewards

--Eating a cantaloup for breakfest--Getting to role play a Covert Opps Mission. 
"Where is the safe zone?"
"There is no safe zone in enemy territory. Keep moving."

or

"Dude. I left the map and compass in the car. We're fucked."
"Woah, calm down its going to be alright. We know Terrain Association. These walls are big. We'll find them."

--Drinking beer at the car
--Drinking whiskey on route
--Sending the crux of Astro Dog

Reflections in the Black Mirror

Black Canyon of the Gunnison

Stoned Oven V 5.11, with Tucker, Dec 1 2012

                                  

Reflections in the Black Mirror

  

In the Black Canyon of the Gunnison there are two kinds of routes: there are casual shorter routes that offer a fun day out with friends, and there are the BIG routes, lines that stretch from the river to the rim and take a full day’s commitment.

Climbing big routes in the Black Canyon is an essentially unique experience.  There are numerous beautiful climbing venues spread across the southwest, yet I continue to return to this dark hole; I cannot resist its pull for long.  Beneath the rim of this vast chasm I’ve learned the pit-of-the stomach seethe of dread followed by the blossoming joy of relief.  Despite the physical prowess required to scale these massive walls, a climber in this place needs to be more than a honed athlete; he need a grittiness of soul, the ability to grimace in spite of despair and cling desperately to the audacious belief that he will prevail despite mounting evidence to the contrary.  Climbing here defies the complexities of glory and ego and is refined to something essential: a simple act of survival. 

We climbers pride ourselves in our strength and stamina; we soar in body and soul to great heights on towers and spires above the earth, but something changes when we descend beneath the rim of this canyon.  We are seasoned in exertion and conditioned to hardship, our minds are stalwart in their resistance of fear, but after hanging from the walls of this dark place long enough, the darkness inevitably seeps in.  The mind is weak; it can only resist for so long.

There is a moment that occurs when the comfort-seeking mind fires its last futile volley and capitulates in the face of overwhelming reality; it is the moment when the climber finally stops lying to himself and accepts: this is happening.  The sun is setting, the rim is still hundreds of feet above, the next pitch does not appear adequately protectable…we are still hanging from the walls of this chasm and it WILL get dark and there are still HARD obstacles between us and the rim.  In that moment, you are weary from exertion and your water is gone and the fabric of your mind is worn thin from rubbing against the edge of danger and you want nothing more than to leave the perilous vertical chossy world and stand on the flat face of the earth we were born to walk on…and you are still hanging from the wall, and this is happening, and it is not guaranteed that you will make it to the canyon rim; you want it to be easy, but to make it, you will need to be bold. 

This moment sucks.  This moment is also probably the reason I leave the comforts of home and community to pursue quixotic adventures in dangerous places, because this moment is a mirror: faced with the realization that this is happening, and that the way out is hard, I discover the true fiber of my being.  Hanging from the walls of the Black Canyon, I have been forced to stare face-to-face at the hideous visage of my own cowardice, and I’ve also felt the surge of courage as I embrace fear and move resolutely upward, towards the rim, towards the flat, safe, comfortable world.

                                      

                                     

                                     

Fear and Dehydration in Colorado's Biggest Hole

Fear and Dehydration in Colorado’s Biggest Hole

More adventures in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison

The Flakes V 5.10+ X

Early summer in Durango is great.  Blissful.  Idyllic.  A typical afternoon usually involves waking up from a sound nap and lounging in the shade of the yard behind Rowan’s house, drinking homemade smoothies and cold beer while watching birds flutter and the sky fade towards evening, maybe rallying for a pump-out sesh at the Golf Wall (our local overhanging grid-bolted limestone crag) as the day’s heat subsides, maybe discussing what to make for dinner and curling up with a book.  It takes a lot to pull me away from this eden, and for most sane people the thought of waking at dawn to descend into Colorado’s deepest chasm and claw our way back to top by our fingertips before dark is not in the least a temptation. 

For better or for worse, I’m not completely sane, and neither is Rowan Hill: esteemed baker of breads, do-it-yourself project enthusiast, and fellow cliff wrestler.  A strong boulderer, Rowan recently caught the fever of multi-pitch trad climbing.  Having climbed just a few multi-pitch bolted moderate routes in his Swiss homeland, he was game to come to the Black Canyon with his roommate Tucker Hancock and myself this May for a primer in climbing long routes.  We warmed up as a party of three with the pleasurable Comic Relief our first day, enjoyed Journey Home the next, and on the third I joined other friends on The Cruise while Rowan and Tucker demonstrated their quickly learned competence by climbing Midsummer Night’s Dream.  Not to be satisfied by a mere three days of grade IV routes, the pair returned the next weekend and sent The Cruise in good style.  I think back to my days of cutting my teeth on long routes, leading off-route on Castleton tower in the dark, untangling rappel ropes while dangling in the windy dark in Red Rocks, squinting desperately through hail at a stuck rope on the Diamond as night fell, stumbling back to Dan Rothberg’s car after midnight for the 12^th time…I shake my head…

Ever since climbing Astrodog (V 5.11+) with Noah Gostout last June, an ascent which pulled Grade V out of the realm of dreams into the  possible, I’d been stewing on the idea of climbing The Flakes (V 5.10+ X), generally considered the ‘Dog’s technically easier, but more grueling and more dangerous, ugly brother.  While the grade seemed certainly manageable, the thing that kept me away for a year was the 5.9 X chimney halfway up the route.  I’ve climbed a lot of chimneys, and runnout is part of the game in most of them, but the idea of running it out that far, where a fall would be…not an option…was not something I liked to think about before bed.  However, after a solid season in the Creek and consistent hard cragging around Durango all spring, followed by three clean sends in the Black two weeks earlier, I could visualize myself up in that chimney and remain calm, palms dry.  I knew it was time to do it. 

Luckily, a man in mired in the clutches of climbing stoke is easily motivated to do ludicrous things.  All it took was a suggestive text message Friday afternoon, and Rowan and I were pouring over the guidebook that evening, discussing the rack.  “This will be a great intro to Grade V, man.” The realist voice: yeah right.  The justifying voice (climbers develop this one real well): he’s Swiss, he’s tough.

Saturday evening we jammed over HWY 550 through the rugged heart of the San Juan mountains past Silverton and on towards Ouray as the peaks slowly faded into crimson alpenglow.  A quick stop for gas and victory snacks (I’ve recently discovered the dark chocolate Mounds Bar) in Montrose and we were soon bedding down in a vacant campsite on the South Rim of Colorado’s biggest hole.

Rappelling into the Black Canyon takes a certain willing suspension of rationality.  At the rim you are safe, and in front of you is a 2000-ft deep chasm with a torrential river at the bottom and nothing but sheer walls out: danger.  Quick glance at the sun hovering over the eastern horizon, trace it’s arc through the sky to the west: it goes from there to there, we have that much time.  A gallon of water.  Gel shots with caffeine. 2 Clif Bars.  Headlamps.  We can make it.  The best way to start is to just throw the ropes and begin descending before your brain realizes what you’re doing and has legitimate grounds to protest.

 

We crushed out the rappels in 1:45 and began swinging leads up the first 4 pitches; soon I was scrambling up to Rowan’s belay beneath the infamous “X” chimney.  Sure enough, there it was: a gaping, gorilla-size fissure that kept going upward beyond the field of vision, no protectable features in sight.  I knew this moment was going to be like jumping off a cliff into water: if I contemplate the distance too long my brain will freak out and demand a truce; the only way to jump is to just walk up and jump.  I grabbed the rack, took a gulp of water and started stemming up into the void. 

Call it karma or the anthropic principle; the earth was built for climbers.  The first stretch of chimney, the widest, has a ladder of subtle face holds on one side and climbs like 5.7 up to a legitimate nut placement before the holds run out and I had to commit to pure chimney technique.  Soon I fell into the rhythm of work: scum knees, palms down, grunt, squirm.  Mental chatter refined to just the necessary: yes, this is just 5.9.  The friction’s pretty good.  At this distance the nut won’t help.  Keep my heart rate under control. I knew enough not to look down; at some point I looked up and saw the chimney continuing interminably, and I felt the first cold sweat of panic bead on my neck.  Reel it in, that’s not allowed. Focus on the present.  All that exists in the world: palm, knee, butt, heel.  Nuances in the weathered stone to push on.  In this mode, the movement became my meditation; focus kept fear at bay, on the outskirts of vision, like a bat fluttering by at dusk.  Time and distance passed, I was at a good rest within reach of a fortuitous chockstone, slung it, continued on. 

 

It’s a long pitch.  At one point I chose the tighter path for security and got stuck, burned lots of energy grunting and gasping, eventually accepted reality and retreated from the bottleneck by slithering downward, exhaling and relaxing my core for a second and sliding a few inches down…towards nothing.  At this point the work of progress had become so all-consuming that there was no room for fear, only the desire to escape the tight squeeze and gain the wider chimney where I could finally move…after much work I made it and was beginning to catch my labored breath when the whole canyon began to roar.  I perched there incredulous, wondering what calamity was occurring, expecting the walls to crumble, when of all things a fighter jet executed a sharp turn through the canyon and sped out of view, its gale-force rumble receding slowly with it.  Wedged in the crack, I envied the young man on a million-dollar joyride.  We took this unexpected visit to be a good omen, and with new resolution I began steadily progressing up to where the chimney widens adjacent to a small ledge. 

 

Tunnel vision is a phenomenon I often experienced in my first years climbing; while gripped on lead, I would sometimes miss a key foothold, a helpful stem, or a nearby crack.  That pitch on The Flakes I must have been mired deep in the tunnel, because somehow I looked at the gaping flare running up to an offwidth, glanced at the convenient ledge equipped with fixed gear, and decided that the pitch kept going.  I think the constant exposure and effort had reduced my mental state to base primate reactivity, the grim satisfaction of stomaching exhaustion and lunging into a foe again.  The sensation reminded me of paddling out into winter swells on the California coast, getting rocked by a wave and scrambling back onto my board in a churning chaos of foam, sizing up the next three incoming waves which I could probably not break through and paddling headlong into them anyway with gritted teeth.

I clipped the fixed gear and moved up into the flare, pushing further and further on smeared feet with half my back shoved into the wall, until I realized that things were really serious and it occurred to me that I’d passed the anchor.

“How much rope?”

“You’re out.”

Shit.  

It was still 10 feet to the offwidth, where I could place my biggest cam.  No way in hell I was gonna downclimb the flare.  Only one option makes things simple.  I hollered down “Simul!”  My mind went blank and I shuffled and smeared, jamming my shoulder and reaching my outside arm overhead to pinch the arête, until I reached the apex of the flare.  Body tight as a bow, I grabbed the behemoth #6 Camalot, reached up to the offwidth, and released the triggers to hear four soft clicks of the lobes nesting in place.  Suddenly the tension and nothingness washed over me like a wave!  I clipped the piece and fired up the offwidth walking the cam with me, the runnout was over!  It was grueling work, in hot sun now, but I remember floating up the stacks, arm-bars, and knee-heel cams as if in an effortless dream. 

Rowan cruised up the chimney with remarkable speed, and I was glad because the roof of my mouth was dry and cracking and he trailed the pack with our precious water.  He reached the belay dripping and exhausted.  My head was still shaken from the chimney lead but I found the resolve to lace up my shoes, grab the rack, and start up into the next pitch, the route’s first technical crux.  It was delicate and precise but well protected, and I pulled through into easier terrain and stretched the rope to the next ledge, then Rowan ran it up a fun pitch to the base of the pitch labeled “dreaded crux chimney” on the topo: pitch 10, an overhanging corner of mungy pegmatite leading up to the route’s crux.  It was 4 PM, we had a pint of water left, 400 or so feet to go, and we’d only eaten a cliff bar and some gel-shots each since 6:30 AM, for fear of drying out.  Nothing to do but go up.  The rock was rotten for a while but the climbing was fun, protection presented itself when I needed it, and the pitch flowed until the crux, which required pulling the roof that capped the dihedral. 

Fun Factor 1: fun at the time, fun to talk about later

Fun Factor 2: not fun at the time, but fun to talk about later

Now that I’ve passed through the initial growing pains of learning to climb, most climbs for me are solid Fun Factor 1.  Moments of fear certainly happen, but I’ve learned to quickly accept fear and transform it into focus and movement.  It’s been a long time since I’ve experienced the sickening sensation of mental exhaustion and despair that plagued my early climbing exploits, the prodding voice of cowardice which, recognizing that reality is scary and difficult, begs to escape, to wake up in some safe and fuzzy place, to find any reality other than the one happening right now.

High on The Flakes, suspended horizontally off of one hand with my last gear 6 feet beneath, staring up at a steep crack with a thousand feet of air beneath my back, that insidious voice whispered louder and louder within my skull.  The sum total of exhaustion, thirst, exposure, fear, and effort: the situation was just so hard.  I just wanted to give up, let go and wake up in some more sane reality, but I was starting to pump out and couldn’t afford to indulge that voice for long.  Contorting my feet to lock me in place, I managed to plug in a piece and summon a burst of power to surge upward towards good jams.  50 feet later I groped up to the belay and collapsed on the ledge, proper spent. 

At the belay after the crux pitch, spent.

Rowan also sent the crux pitch and was psyched to rack up for the last 5.10 pitch, which he styled.  The hard climbing over, we embarked up the last few hundred feet of broken terrain to the summit, somehow getting the rope stuck twice.  There’s nothing so frustrating as downclimbing featureless terrain searching for pro to anchor and un-stick a rope, mouth dry, lips cracking, with the lookout guardrail in plain sight 200 feet above.  Solely intent on reaching our water, we dispatched the problem as quickly as we could and shot straight up the last steep wall, which unfortunately looked “not that bad” but ended up being sketchy 5.9R on loose rock; at that point I didn’t care and just pulled for the top.  Mantling onto the canyon rim above the canyon bathed in golden light, I’ve never been so happy to flop on my belly on flat ground. 

At the car we sprawled, worn and beaten, on the pavement, indulging in sips of water and a celebratory Tecate and lime.  It took us 1:45 to rappel in and 12 hours to climb out; Rowan got his solid introduction to Grade V.  We slowly returned water and food to our tired bodies, watched the fading sunset dwindle on the canyon rim, and rallied for the drive back to Durango.

Topping out to the canyon rim at sunset. Photos courtesy T. Molnar

I guess this is what tired looks like