My First Epic

Climbing chalk is sometimes referred to as powdered confidence, and many of us cling to it like a child's blankie before facing our own potential boogie men on cliffs everywhere. What about new gear, though? Don't you feel stronger and braver from slipping on a fresh pair of shoes? Doesn't the fresh snap of unblemished cams lead to thoughts of running it out (and paradoxically not using those same cams)? I know that is all true for me, but I learned it the hard way during one of my first multi-pitch trips.

The cliff was relatively short, not to mention slabby, and it was a beautiful sunny day in the Sawtooths of Idaho. Riding high from reuniting with my new girlfriend after a couple months apart, I was not alarmed by the late hour. We had a plan that we were going to keep! She had just graduated and was spending the summer and fall working at a guest ranch. I was a year behind and spending my summer in Leadville, CO, learning the ropes of being an Outward Bound instructor. I'd been honing my trad skills for the past year in Tennessee, had received further instruction and practice through OB, and was (in my mind) fully equipped with a new trad rack through my prodeal. After a brief demo of how to remove my new gear, we were ready to make our first multi-pitch ascent as a couple!

Our progress was initially delayed by a middle-aged, local couple bailing from the second pitch. Amateurs. Surely we would easily dispatch this backwoods 5.7 in the next couple hours, possibly with them even witnessing our prowess. Then we would celebrate with pan-cooked pita pizzas, creek-chilled wine, and starlit skies.

The first pitch followed a shallow runoff groove choked with dirt. Rather than grovel up that, I decided we would ascend the clean, adjacent slab. Given the easy nature and lack of gear, we would simul-free-solo. We tied in, and both set off up the 5.6/5.7 slab. Fortunately it was easy climbing but the slab arced upward as we climbed higher toward the tree ledge. About 85% through, my girlfriend got spooked. I talked her anxiety down and traversed to the tree ledge to offer a belay. Good thing we were tied in already. We would see that tree ledge again.

The second pitch followed a shallow corner up to a jumble of tat around a giant choked chockstone. Suddenly I found myself in the same spot as the previous party. From the belay cave I could not tell where to go for the 3rd pitch. Without a topo and with little multipitch experience, I swallowed my pride and we set to descend. Thus began one of most tense experiences of my climbing experiences.

A half-rope rappel from the belay cave could not take us the full pitch to the tree ledge, but I remembered there were two pitons about  four feet apart mid pitch. I rappelled first set a belay using the two old pins. For the next rappel, I sent my lady down first. The rope was thread through a screwlink on the bottom pin, while I backed up the rappel with my body and a runner to the higher pin. She recalls how stern and quiet I was during the experience. I imagine now that it was probably to hide my foolishness from her. Safely reaching the tree ledge, I don't think she realized the gamble I took rappelling from the single pin with no backup. I was grateful for the "near miss" of the situation.

It was nearly nightfall and cold by the time we made camp that night. Our celebration was dampened by fatigue, fright, and a lack of matches. We drank unchilled white wine and choked down our cold, lunchables-style pita pizzas before turning in.

My wife and I have gone on to successfully complete (and bail from) several multipitch lines since then. I've acquired more gear, and sense, and we always carry an extra lighter in our first aid kit.

Seeking the Struggle

A short piece I wrote awhile back:

Climbing days were few and far between. The end of a semester and holiday preparation took far too much time and energy. Plastic was a poor substitute, and even it seemed elusive. For weeks, maybe months, I planned this getaway. The details were still vague. Roughly a week. Somewhere in the southeast. Climb as much as possible. Where would the weather be best? Who would be available? All that really mattered was being outside doing what I loved and missed.

The voice of one crying in the wilderness. The Book of Luke says John “the Baptist” grew strong in spirit and lived in the deserts until his public appearance. That has always intrigued me. What was it about living in the desert, wearing camel hair, and eating wild locusts and honey that prepared John for his role in ushering the Christ of Israel? God used wilderness to prepare others as well. After the exodus from Egypt, He made His people wander 40 years in the wilderness before they were fit for the promise land! I had only a week to spare. What did he have planned for me?

Tennessee Wall is my favorite crag. Perhaps it’s the way the repetitive corners and arêtes allow me to feel hidden away from other climbers and their crag dogs. The features also restrain my ego, which so often manipulates me when surrounded by crowds.

Golden Locks is my ultimate happy place there. Nearly one hundred feet tall with maybe seventy feet of that pure hand crack, it is difficult for me to walk by and not climb such a phenomenal route. The crack is clean and smooth. The jams are perfect slots, requiring minimal twisting or cupping. If I were ever to practice free soloing, which I likely never will, it would be to feel the unencumbered flow that comes from ascending a climb like Golden Locks.

For now, it serves as a confidence booster, as I choose and place just enough pieces between bomber rest jams, swimming upward in smooth movement, smile on my face, using the critical crimp for the single crux lunge to a jug at the top of the crack. That move always reminds me of my own on-sight effort: sweating an ocean, thrutching between moves, carrying way too much gear, and nearly exploding off the crux move before gingerly moving to the chains. The efforts where failure is so near, yet I somehow succeed are the most memorable and satisfying.

Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led around by the Spirit in the wilderness. During that mysterious time of preparation in the desert, the devil tempted the God-Man with all the desires of our own hearts, particularly an easy way out. But it wasn’t to be easy for Jesus or for us. Jesus knew what He had to do. He knew it was going to be difficult, even asking the Father to remove the cup if possible. Yet He endured for our sake. God is constantly refining us throughout our lives, and I have to remind myself that there is value in every struggle.

The last climb of the day had to be a good one. This particular climb my partner and I had looked at many times . . . and walked away from just as many. Fortunately, it was his lead, and a moment of decisiveness took us to the base once again. Crack Attack is highly rated in every guidebook, but it’s not a typical, well-known classic. Past the main area and largely hidden above a blocky start, it has an aura of mystery and adventure, and that’s exactly what we found.

Back on the ground, after the most impressive lead I’ve seen from him, my partner didn’t have much to say. What can you say after finishing a challenging, scary lead? A simple exhale is enough. Those moments fall into the “Type 2 Fun” category for me, fun to reflect on later but not very fun in the moment. Donning my headlamp and reluctantly leaving my parka, I prepared for my own adventure. I was glad to finally get on this route.

The opening chunky stuff is followed by a flared offwidth kept mellow enough by a handcrack in the back. Over a bulge, I worked thru delicious, thin fingers on a slab. The crux comes about three-quarters height. In catching a couple lead falls, I had the benefit of seeing my partner work out the beta. Still it wasn’t easy. I pulled a small roof using a hand crack until I could frog squat above the roof. Tenuously stepping right over a void, I toed a small nubbin with the hopes it wouldn’t explode off the wall. The subsequent step thru on slopey gastons and crimps was spicy even on top rope. The hardest part of the climb, though, was finishing the final fifteen-foot wet chimney in the dark. Hanging over the 100ft tall wall, above the trees, above the Tennessee River, fearing an eminent nasty slip out of a stone tube, I was glad my sight was limited to just the bowels of the chimney. Grateful to reach the chains, I took a moment to regain my composure and simply appreciate the opportunity to climb.

At the base, I had just one thing to say: “That was terrifying.” Terrifying but rewarding. Uncomfortable but worthwhile. Is that not life? Hopefully, every moment is not a struggle, but the struggles make us better. I’m grateful for every day the Lord lets me enjoy His creation, and I’m grateful for the refining fire He brings me through, even if it’s an off-width of my own choosing.