Three Days on the Captain

3 days on The Captain with Jim Toman

After 2 weeks in the Valley cragging on smaller features I was enthralled with the climbing, yet troubled by a simmering restlessness.  I spent many afternoons lounging in El Cap meadow staring up at the big stone, awestruck by the size of it, wondering if I would have what it takes to climb it this trip.  Then thursday night during one of the Facelift night events, stoked on inspiring slideshows and the constantly flowing kegs, my buddy Jim struck me with the proposition of climbing The Nose.  It took me about 2 seconds to agree wholeheartedly, and we started scheming immediately.  Neither of us had been on the route, and I had never touched a big wall (or a haul bag for that matter), but we were psyched.

                                       gettin stoked racking up

Deciding our style was simple.  Many parties fix ropes and pre-haul bags to ease the logisitics of the lower half of the route, but we were both committed to doing it in simple style, starting at the base and moving in one flow, no fixing, treating the wall as a free climb with a bit of aid rather than a wall climb with some free climbing included.

We racked up friday, got our gear set and haulbag packed, then went out to the Facelift for more inspiring talks and slideshows and "carbo-loading" sponsored by New Belgium brewery.  We woke before dawn on Saturday, chugged as much water as possible, and staggered up to the base of the Captain with our loaded bags.  I'd agreed to lead the first block, which involved awkward, insecure climbing that shook my confidence in my ability to do the route.  The 1st and 2nd pitches have nasty slabby sections with thin holds and tenuous flared pinscars for pro.  I decided that I didn't want to risk whipping on the crap gear and taking a massive fall so I resorted to french-freeing through the crux, but as I was pulling on an Alien in a flared pinscar it popped and I somehow mashed myself into a stem and didn't fall.  Sometimes a good healthy dose of pucker factor is all it takes to change the headgame.  After popping the cam I told myself to "stop dicking around" and I finished the pitch free, gripped but motivated.  It was also my first time hauling, so I had to work through some shenanigans with that.  And any way you slice it, hauling an 80 lb bag up low-angle slabs is a pain in the ass.

    Jim tending the bags on the nasty slab hauls low on the route

Luckily the climbing after Sickle ledge gets way more straightforward.  After I lead a double-pendulum pitch into the Stovelegs, Jim took the lead and brought us up the Stovelegs in style, crushing the strenuous off-fist sections spurting expletives into the dusk.  We  got the bag up to Dolt tower at nightfall and made camp.

          

Jim cruising the Stovelegs                              Waking up on Dolt Tower

Day two we woke up psyched for upward progress.  Jim lead the first block up to El Cap Tower, up a fun chimney and onward up a steep bolt ladder to the top of Boot Flake, where I lowered him down for the famous "King Swing."  By this time it was well into the afternoon and we were pretty drained from the baking heat and complicated hauling situations, but it was my turn to take the rack.  The next pitch had two options, the standard route went up a crack to a pendulum to the anchors, but the free variation traversed a face of blobby diorite at 5.12 or 5.10 A0.  After all the morning's shenanigans I was psyched on climbing (mostly) free, so I went for the traverse.  It turned out much harder than the topo suggested, and I found myself swinging on the end of a fixed sling groping for a small rail, which I eventually caught after several attempts.  After some desperate 5.10 (?) moves I found myself in a tenuous position a good 20 feet away from my last bolt with a difficult move between me and the next ledge.  One of the beautiful things about climbing is that we find ourselves in hard situations where the decision of how to move on is very simple.  It took only a little analysis to realize that I could not downclimb the last moves, I couldn't swing to everything, and I really didn't want to take a 40-ft swinger, so I had to do the moves. Now.  I worked a small offset nut and a blue alien into little flares in the diorite, equalized the pieces, and committed to the moves.

I mantled up onto the ledge of Camp 4 beneath the great roof as the sun's fading rays filtered though the California haze to the west and lit the Captain afire with an orange glow.  Some of my earliest memories are of Sierra peaks warm with alpenglow on evenings in the wilderness with my dad, and I have always been inspired by the sight. Despite my fatigue after 2 days of work I once again I caught the spell of the sunset and started racking up again.  "I'll take us through the Great Roof," I told Jim, "that way we can wake up to free climbing tomorrow and start with momentum."  "Whatever, man, if you've got the energy go for it," he said.  A fun pitch got us to the base of the Great Roof, and as night set in I started aiding up into the darkness.

There is a unique simplicity to climbing at night; the known world shrinks to a 20-ft circle of light, and I moved upward, high-stepping from placement to placement with Led Zeppelin blasting up across the moonlit wall, an experience I will never forget.  At the belay I gumbied for a while trying to set up the portaledge on a blank face, but after much tomfoolery and rope confusion we got the ledge pitched, fired up a tasty dinner of couscous and sardines (in mustard!), and I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that I was going to spend the night on a platform on nylon hanging 2000 ft in the air.  I slept great.

 

The next morning we woke early and spent a few minutes sipping coffee and taking in our ludicrous position on the wall as morning light filled Yosemite Valley beneath us.  Life on a ledge requires slow, deliberate movements so it doesn't tip too much, but we managed to eat breakfast and stow our sleeping bags, and inventory our water supply.  I had the first block that day, which included lots of hard free climbing.  This is what I'd dreamed of for 6 months, for years even, free climbing up in the sky.  The exposure of our position pressed constantly at my mind, so it took a lot of willpower to focus on my dream, stare up at the cracks above us, and rack up on the portaledge.  We had about 1000 ft of hard climbing above us and 2 gallons of water; we had to fire this thing today.  The climbing was brilliant.  Climbing off the ledge and liebacking up the Pancake Flake first thing in the morning was unreal, and pitch after pitch of aesthetic, strenuous cracks followed.

  looking down from the Pancake Flake           Jim all smiles atop the 5.11 thin-hands corner pitch

We had just enough water to keep ourselves functioning, but we were always very thirsty.  After aiding the thin crack in the "glowering spot" pitch I saw that the corner widened to a beautiful finger crack--this thing was just too sweet to be aided!  I stepped out of my aiders and freed it (barely) and collapsed on the next ledge, fully gassed.  However, the thing about wall climbing is that once you finish a lead you can't rest, but instead have to haul for 15 minutes, just more labor.  

  

After a couple minutes rest I ate a GU packet and when Jim reached the belay I racked up for the next pitch, a beautiful 5.11b tight-hands crack in a steep corner, with the promise of cruiser hand jams above.  I was exhausted but I wanted to get this pitch so bad, it was my style of climbing.  Jim put some Rage against the Machine on the tune box and I fired through the ringlocks and thin-hands until I pumped out and fell just before the climbing eased up.  I guess we can't always ask for strong performances on day 3 on a wall.  

gassed after the Glowering Spot pitch, very 

un-psyched on setting up the next haul

After resting I finished the pitch on stellar handcracks, then racked up for my last lead, the Changing Corners pitch, which climbs a mind-blowing DOUBLE handcrack and proceeds to a bolt ladder (unless you climb 5.14).  Aiding around the corners was tricky but easier than I feared, and after hauling I was psyched to pass the lead to Jim for the last 4 pitches.  4 pitches! after 2 and half days on the wall, the top felt so close.  As Jim crushed a strenuous 5.10+ layback out a roof, I stared at the water jug and willed myself to not chug the thing.  Jim blasted the last 3 free pitches with minimal aid, which I followed in utter exhaustion, then aided up the final bolt-ladder to the summit.  Once again, the fading sun set the Captain aglow as he made the last haul and I jugged the final pitch to the summit.  Some generous soul left us a can of salmon and a package of cream cheese (we think it may have been the French party ahead of us), and we tucked into that with our remaining crackers, sipped a little water, and passed out on the summit.

          

     Jim crushing the 5.10+ layback                                   the final haul

We climbed The Nose in 3 days in one push, freeing the majority of all but 5 pitches, to 5.11.  It was by far the hardest thing I've ever done; there were times when I was so gassed I just wanted to give up, or while incessantly hauling I'd let my mind wander to daydreams of pools of cool water and a beautiful girl in a grassy field, but pitch by pitch we found the resolve to continue upwards at a steady pace.  It is an amazing rock climb.  Now, spending glorious days of rest on the valley floor, eating, drinking, swimming and lounging in El Cap meadow, I enjoy the luxury of rest but I can't help craving life on the wall, the hightened state of being we dwelled in, where we bent all aspects of our wills and resources to one simple goal: upward progress.

                          

nothing like waking to a cup a joe hangin out at the Great Roof

 it's a long walk down with a haulbag

cheers to Ryan and Angela for meeting us in the parking lot with cold hoppy refreshements

a super refreshing dip in the Merced

The bridge scene, emcee'd by Tom Evans.  Tom generously provided us with the following photos he snapped from the meadow, check out his coverage of El Cap climbs at www.elcapreport.com.  Tom takes amazing photos and hosts a hangout at the bridge, where he was glad to offer ice-cold King Cobras to some sweaty haggard climbers fresh off the wall.

 Jim leading off Dolt Tower, day 2

 Jim aiding up to Boot Flake

myself jugging up Boot Flake 

Hauling at the end of the Changing Corners, ready to pass the lead to Jim.  4 pitches to go.

Adventures of the Good Squad

Adventures of the Goon Squad

 

“Anything silly is worth doing well”

        -   a stamp my uncle uses on his letters

Climbing is one of the sillier human endeavors.  I recall that Sir Edmund Hillary, upon returning exhausted and battered from an expedition, was asked by Nepalese villagers why he tried to go over the mountain rather than walk around it to get to the other side.  The usefulness or practicality of the effort to climb up the steep sides of things can simply not be proved.  But climbing is, for many of us, a completely irresistible pull, and we bend our schoolwork, jobs, and sometimes entire lifestyles in order to spend as much time as possible in upward pursuits.  What drives young people with college degrees to quit work and spend months on the road, sleeping in drainage ditches outside of desert towns, wearing the knees out of their pants, eating carrots and peanut butter and goodies from the dumpster behind King Soopers, snooping around campgrounds avoiding rangers like outlaws, and despite the appearance of poverty remain totally psyched? 

morning niceties in the Brave Little Toaster

At Colorado College a core group of climbers coalesced around similar values: getting out to new places, trying really hard, not getting benighted, and doing it in silly costumes.  From afternoon excursions to the Garden of the Gods to spring break rambles across Utah and Arizona, we enjoyed a lot of fun rock and showed up at many a crag sporting outlandish outfits and awesome (hideous) stick-on tatoos.  At some point someone called us the “goon squad,” and I think that title fits.  Following strict adherence to a ratio of 30% try-hard, 20% silly costumes, 20% sending tattoos, 15% tasty summit snacks, and 15% Tecate (with lime, of course), we have been able to enjoy a decent amount of quality rock climbing, survive a fair share of questionable rock climbing, have a whole dang bunch of fun, and not get a car stuck (yet!).

three goons atop Lone Peak, Wasatch Mtns, Utah

 the DMFay topping out Monster Tower in impeccable style

the usual state of things

I assumed that David had brought is A-game for his impressive neon clown ascent of Monster Tower and Washer Woman; I was wrong.  The next day David busted a move that took the club down by debuting an authentic Colorado College baseball uniform on our free ascent of the precarious Standing Rock in Monument Basin.  True class!

Wild Iris, August, preparing for some serious sport whippin after a week of trad climbing.  Right now I'm thinking: "I either need to send, or I'll be laughed off the wall"

DBR going for the Fruit Bowl King Swing with some real chuztpa, no doubt encouraged by the Wal-Mart St Paddy's special on his head

The Sharper World

A sunny Saturday at Indian Creek, tired and not sending, my hands ripped from their tortured devotion.  More cracks loom all around, each an invitation to try, to get whupped, to see if I have the strength and tenacity and elegance to dance with its brutal simplicity. 

So many opportunities, and I’m so tired.  The dance is so hard.  Why am I trying?  Why did I drive here alone on a weekend, to struggle and bleed and drink beer with tired hands with these stoic men?  Why do I keep running?

Thoughts drift to loss and sadness…the tendrils of a dream.  Memories of love, days spent basking in a woman’s sunshine, the bliss of togetherness.  Days of friendship, with our own rains but absent of the sting of isolation, the endless march, feeling the weight of my tired feet.

Someone at the wall needs a toprope put up so I grovel out of my perch amongst the rocks and shake the cobwebs from my head, rack up.  In itself an act of intention.  The climb is a 5.10 finger layback into a thin-hands slot, don’t need extra gear, it’ll go.  On the vertical again, pulling hard above a piece, pushing the possible fall out of mind beneath me, only movement is upward.

Clipping the anchors on a wall of chocolate in the early evening, the gulf of air all around, the ravens circling, the valley verdant in spring foliage, life blossoming in cactus and cottonwoods in the desert.  Lean out and breathe it in, my back sore and rippling under my shirt, my hands crusty and stiff.  This is why. 

Lowering to the ground amongst sore, sweaty people, and for now, because of now, they are friends.  Lounging on a boulder in the fading sunlight, commenting on the progress of comrades above, sharing pains, telling lies and fueling dreams.  Letting bare feet smudge into the coarse red dirt, climbers above, etched in shadow against the rock, still in that sharper world.

Ryan grunts as he attempts to swing a meaty wrestler’s thigh into the gaping crack above his head. Large cams hang beneath his shoulders on a sling, dangling like some whimsical wind chimes as he shudders to get purchase.  Scott belaying, silent, stoic.  In their world each edge of rock is sharp, each line clear, each feature and curve of stone critical in its size and texture.  The light slices across immutable edges, the rope, their lifeline, threads humbly over unchanging stone.  Never more clear that we are visitors. 

Below, the edges soften.  Features blur together into aggregate forms, lumped together for simplicity: pillar, talus, corner, ground.  No longer tuned to the whispering rhythm of rock and cliff, the mind drifts to softer hues: the view below, the panorama of canyonlands, conversations, water.  The sun dips into some untrodden tract of desert, the golden hour falls on the Second Meat Wall; conversation mingles with the pop of beer cans, truth and lies.  Our world soft, our bodies relaxed after the fight.  Climbers still above, perched on the cliff like some forgotten gargoyles, clawing their way toward heaven.

The sky above, the dirt below. 

Honoring Tradition: Scrappy Dudes and Summiting Nudes

A tribute to scrappy dudes getting naked on summits

Dan Rothberg, David Fay, myself, Lone Peak, UT

The tradition's founder, Noah "Gotsteez" Gostout, atop Warbonnet, Cirque of the Towers, WY

Dan Rothberg, Lone Peak

 Dan, David, myself, Monster Tower, Canyonlands, UT

 Dan and David, Standing Rock, Canyonlands, UT.  Keep in mind the summit is about 20 ft square.
Note helmets and chalk bags for safety.

ritual slicing of the cantaloupe

all the necessary ingredients for a delightful summit picnic

An impromptu nude ascent of the final slab pitch of Argon Tower, Arches, UT

yarr!!! this climbing thing is driving me nuts!

Backcountry Nude ambassadors John Collis and David Fay, at work in the Bighorn Mountains, WY

strong work gentlemen.

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