Stories

I moved with my family to Moab beginning of April. One last attempt at my life as a Geologist. We lived in a small 1960's Oasis camper, parked on BLM without hookups. Enthusiasts of the art call it "boondocking". The Crackhouse, a sinuous crack across the ceiling of a dusty cave somewhere near Gemini Bridges, was first on my tick-list.

I eventually completed the route from the standard "Birth Canal" start as well as the "Dean variation". 80 feet of dead horizontal roof, pumped in the inconspicuous muscles of my shins. Lap one hand over the other, one foot over the other. Cultivate a rhythmic breathing. Feet start to feel like hooves. Fists become stubs. I forget there are fingers attached.

Making sense of climbing is like making sense of the stars by drawing lines between them. Constellations are stories, fictional, arbitrary. Only there because we looked for them. Climbing is similar. By noticing the texture and quality of compaction, climbers follow discontinuity. Fractures, edges, subtle undulations on an otherwise smooth surface. Enticed to draw lines between them. Form a path of imperfections.

"Daddy?" My daughter playing in the cave in the dust looks up at me. Her dirty face. Not a bath in several days. The desert upended her world and the comforts she knew but she seems unaffected.  Sometimes I feel like the modern iteration of a Puritan cult leader exiling my family from  unorthodoxy.  From a runaway world. The idea frightens me.

"Busy."

I pause, alternately dangle arms toward the ground, catch breath. Watch the veins swell with blood. Breathe deeply through my nose and mouth. Desert mouth.

The hush outside under a white blazing sun. Her voice a striking antonym. Breeze seems to whisper through me without engagement. Caught up in this challenge. Fixed to the rock.

"Um. Daddy?"

Exiting the cave. Just before the crux. PHOTO: Marni Robertson

A year before the desert I was camped on a glacier below Mt Huntington. Base camp was a cook tent, a sleep tent and a snow cave that, due to an incessant storm, was converted into a latrine. 

In the black sleep something stirs below and I wake. The earthquake lasts a few seconds. The ground beneath insubstantiate, disturbing. Crash of avalanching snow. 

Wrapped in my down cocoon, expose my mouth to the dark. “An earthquake?”

“Yeah.”

“Hear that slide?”

“Yeah.”

“Should we get out of the tent?”

Ice crashing above us in the dark.

Fourteen days ago I saw my little girls. I saw Marni. Kissed them. Held them.

She was three years old. But I watched her mature in the weeks before I left. Watched her heart turn from me. Protect herself from an unsettled father.

In the dark inside my bag I lay with memories too singular speak. Seeing my daughter. I would hold her. Convince her of my affection. Be her daddy.

Thoughts that burn. Splice a new reel of thought. Something inert. Waiting in a storm lasting thirteen days. A stale, caustic span. In the morning I promise to work out. Promise not to let all the bacon and pancakes I eat every morning make me fat. The morning reveals thick frost lining the inner wall of the tent. Worm out of my bag. Flakes of ice fall into my hair and drip down my neck and I think of that little girl so many miles away as I stumble out of the tent.

***

When I finally come home, my children are visibly bigger. Hair longer. I sit down with them and we play with toys I haven't seen before. My brain measures integrals of absence to find the value of what I missed; cold calculus that does not explain the sadness abiding my daughter's eyes.

The story I am writing breaks apart under her regard. Ideas carefully fostered into an image no longer worth the effort. I am living a fiction if I believe my absence is harmless.

It occurs to me that stories keep us from breaking. Prose like threads of dyneema connecting our existence to something more permanent. Metaphysical giving context to physical. Because fiction is reality that I am too fragile to accept, disguised for my comfort.

Gives new meaning to #livingthedream. But reality is persistent.

What happens if you wake up to the costs of dreaming?

***

Repeated hacking with my dull picks. The upper ice field of Mt Huntington is so much bigger than imagined. I remember the heavy swing and kick and calves burning, knees swollen. I remember my soaked gloves. I see Alaskan peaks arrayed like a dispassionate tribunal witnessing our ascent. Mountains that speak to me in sleep, that fill up my head with stories. Crowding out the people who belong there.

People, though less permanent, are more important than mountains.

Near the summit, my arms cramp. Cold hands. Cold feet. Uncertain my fingers will ever pry loose of these ice tools.

Nearing the summit of Mt Huntington. PHOTO: Jackson Marvel

Background

Sleeping in.
PHOTO CREDIT: Andy Earl

In a rare show of calm, no wind to tears across the sedimentary ridge-line. Having expelled its atmospheric lungs, the weather now rests in a lull between inhale and exhale. The ridge whistles quietly and the sun-line creeps around the north corner of The Priest.

We sit on a small ledge. Superfluous talk. Against the timescale of the ridge and the valley, our rhetoric measures up to empty dialogue shaped by trite morality. Our heaviest choices adding up to dust against the background.

Our ledge situated high above the crumbling ridge-line. The tower we ascend, anomalous against the plains of the desert. A short-lived outlier slowly normalized to the flat background, subtracted from the skyline. Do we climb towers because their life-spans more resemble our own?

Two pitches (200'), no falls yet. Three more to the summit. The remaining height of the tower displays itself above, leaning over us like an invitation. We busy ourselves with the rearrangement of ropes and frictional systems, a process made tedious by the small ledge we sit. We carefully rearrange ourselves and I start up the sharp, outside corner.

The climbing is harder as the features become subtler. My attention is necessarily focused to small details which dictate the shape of my upward movements. I reach the top elated, my forearm veins engorged, flooding the muscle fibers with oxygen-saturated blood.

A rare day of climbing with no falls.

But rare days result only as thin laminations, immeasurably small in the massive layers of tabulate strata.

First pitch of Touchstone Wall, free variation. From 2015.
PHOTO CREDIT: Andy Earl

She walks now. And it’s as if she always walked. Walking has overprinted crawling, rolling, helpless whining.

She walks through trunks of adult legs, clustered and differing shades. Her feet are bare. Her legs are bare and white with fat and her feet make little slapping sounds against the linoleum floor. Her little belly sticks out in front.

Murmuring of conversation fills the space, a home where people gather. The accumulation of their voices become white noise: background. Wanders in a forest of legs towering over her head. She stops and rests her hand against one of the many trunks. It responds. A piece of the conversation detaches itself from the murmur, directed at her. She finds the familiar set of eyes. Sees the cues in the wrinkles and shape of the nose and mouth. The shapes are associated with feelings and outcomes from past interactions. She is a self-referencing loop.

Relaxing on our portaledge while the sandstone walls cool off from the day's baking.
PHOTO CREDIT: Andy Earl

This time, the horizontality is disrupted by the incision of a canyon. Massive walls bind the sinuous river. Bushes of desert holly grow on ledges in the collected mounds of sand. We sit in our sweat, shaded by a precarious, free-standing pillar called Rebozo’s Pinnacle. I keep wondering about Rebozo. He must have had a huge penis. We are three hundred feet from the valley floor littered with yellow Fremont Cottonwood trees. Little weeds from our distant vantage.

Andy fills a canvas the size of a postcard with watercolor paint and descriptive ink lines. Brent is asleep or trying to sleep. I lean against Rebozo’s Pinnacle and think about my raw fingertips.

Around 4:30 p.m. the sun sinks beneath the canyon walls and we are left with forgiving shade. Now we wait while the heated wall cools into background. I glance down at my fingertips. They continue to ooze sweat.

The wall expands above with a cryptic, wandering line of edges which must accommodate our fingers. Connect the dots with our limited reach.

As I tie into one end of the rope and stem to the top of Rebozo’s pinnacle, I do not think of the tiny slapping feet. Or the pink, delicate fingers. Altogether I forget the constant pull of their expectations as their presence fades into the less relevant corners of my brain.

Stepping off of Rebozo's Pinnacle and onto the main wall.
PHOTO CREDIT: Andy Earl

Hands and feet move in deliberate sequence of edges with pull and pressure and a careful precision, I have already forgotten about preschools, and pink tricycles. Cartoonish ponies with bashful, alien-sized eyes. I forget that I see the roof of her mouth when she throws her head back in cackling laughter.

Silicate grains bite into the skin of my raw fingertips, but my brain does not remember. Remembers only the cyclic peaks of inhale and valleys of exhale and the contracting-relaxing pattern of muscle tension.

Oblivious to the shaping canvas of time and waning sunlight. My acute attention holding back an enormous wave of thought and stimulation.  

The start of the crux sequence, the name of the game here was precision. I can not recall ever using footholds quite so small. PHOTO CREDIT: Andy Earl

Brent and I then trade places as dusk settles into the canyon. I watch him execute the same sequence of moves, the LED halo that encircles his position starkly contrasted against the murky smudges of the immense wall of sandstone. A halo holding against the background. Stars begin to position themselves up in the dark, providing a measure of form to the void. Andy’s clicking shutter sends crisp soundwaves through the still medium.

Brent climbing inside the orb of light.
PHOTO CREDIT: Andy Earl

The strange loop that is my daughter walks to me easily so that I believe she always walked upright. Crawling, rolling, helpless whining: amorphous memories that she will not remember. Those memories are for me. How much of the collective human psyche is used up on memories of our children, of our precedent generations, our evolutionary ancestors that crawled on all fours?

A balancy rest just after the crux on Spaceshot. PHOTO: Andy Earl

I wrap her torso with my hands, lifting her with such ease. Now they are strapped into car seats and driven away with Grandma. I get into my truck, feeling their absence. I am familiar with the necessity of betrayal. With my responsibility to neglect. My daughters resent me for working, for climbing. They have so many wants that are incompatible with their needs. My girls can’t trust me to be their father because I am their provider. Each time I leave them out of love, all they see is me leaving. They see past the kisses and hugs I heap upon them as distractions. I suppose kids are less practiced at lying to themselves. I suppose it takes an adult to ignore all the shit. Subtract it from the forefront. Push it into background.

The Second Ascent of The Phantom Wall

May 1991

Third attempt on "the illusive Phantom Wall" Jay Smith and Paul Teare stand on a clear, windless summit. Smith takes out his bic and, removing his gloves, lights it. 

The flame rose straight to the sky. In all directions the shimmering peaks of the Alaska Range glistened like so many silverfish. Two years of effort had rewarded us with one of the finest routes we have ever climbed. (1)

26 years later, the route was unrepeated.  

May 2017 

We spent nearly a three weeks on the Tokositna Glacier, below Mt Huntington. Snowed in, waking each day to a buried tent door and a headache from mild asphyxiation. We watched looming clouds break over the immense granite pyramid, spilling over base camp, a dense, white haze.
       

Then, a window of opportunity: the weather forecast called for three sunny days. Now we loaded our packs and trudged toward the Tokositna Icefall and Death Valley. It was 7:00 p.m. on Thursday, May 8.

Thigh-deep snow from base camp through the Tokositna icefall. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

Dark fell at midnight and we dropped into Death Valley's silent bowl. Looming all around were icy walls caked with enormous globs of snow. ticking time-bombs that would come crashing into the valley from the coming warmth of morning light.

It was an anxious kind of sleep we had in our little tent.

My alarm sounded at 5:00 a.m. We put on our boots and opened the tent door. Our nose hairs immediately froze.

We ate oatmeal and shared drinks of coffee from the stove pot while the massive walls surrounding our camp maintained their silent composure.

Waking up below The Phantom Wall. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

A girdling crevasse called a berg-shrund guarded the Phantom Wall at its base. Despite receiving advice from a fellow climber that the shrund was impassable, we crossed without major incident. 

The snow steepened and we climbed through two small bands of rock. Up and to our right, a cerac and bus-sized ice blocks scattered below it. We cut right and crossed the icy carnage, climbing into steeper terrain.

The long slog before the crux pitches on the headwall. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

At the base of the headwall, we dug a bench in the snow and ate expired Mountainhouse meals after which, we climbed a hundred feet of ice and overhanging snow. There were very few options for protection here. The ice was thin and discontinuous, the shallow snow lay atop featureless granite.

By now the sun had long crossed to our side of the mountain and baked the walls surrounding Death Valley. We heard the rumble of massive slides far below.

We climbed 600 feet of technical ice and rock swapping leads, following the path of least resistance.  We crossed sections of barren rock with little to no protection. My frontpoints skated for purchase across the smooth stone. God I missed my climbing shoes!

Not a photo from The Phantom Wall but accurately portrays the quality of rock. Just imagine a few thousand extra feet below and you basically have it. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell.

It was getting late. The steepness of the wall provided no spacious ledges to pitch a tent. Around midnight we chopped little platforms out of the ice, spread our bags, and slept tethered to an ice screw.

Carving out a ledge to sleep on. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

Dropping temperatures sent spindrift flowing down onto us from the icefield above. We were completely exposed. After four hours of sleep, sunlight reflected off the frozen peaks to the west. We inched out of our ice-encrusted bags and made breakfast.

The last hard pitch loomed above us: a granite wall split vertically by a small seam. I hacked at the ice built up inside the crack to place protection. After an hour of climbing, I equalized a belay  off of several stoppers. I can’t imagine how Jackson’s toes were doing by the time he started climbing, but he was able to toprope it clean at M6.

A few more pitches of rock and ice brought us to the upper ice field: a 70 degree face of bullet-hard ice, extending to the summit. Jackson led three pitches consecutively until I was certain I would shit my thermals if I didn't relieve myself. I hung my weight on the rope and dropped drawers.

I offered to take the next lead feeling quite renewed.

The ice stretched upward, seemingly endless. Our arms and legs cramping from the monotonous swing and kick.

The Summit Icefield and the vertical cap many meters above. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

Finally, the last pitch loomed above us. It was a mere 40 feet of vertical ice. No big deal. But the culmination of every foot of rock, ice and snow of Mt Huntington's west face lay below us. Barely eight hours of sleep over the last two nights. Our brains and bodies were fried.

Jackson led the pitch to where the angle lessened and, exhausted, pounded a picket into the snow. I followed slowly, every swing feeling like a last ditch effort. I grovelled up the last 60 feet of low angle snow to the summit.

The thin air whipped about us, blasting our faces with icy flakes. The sun was visible through the thin cloud that enshrouded Huntington’s peak. All around us the disembodied summits of the Alaskan Range floating in the haze. It was about 5:00 p.m.

If I look pudgy, it's from all the bacon pancakes I devoured while we sat around for two weeks in a storm. Photo Credit: Jackson Marvell

As we descended, my thoughts fell into a rote pattern of food fantasy. I recall the image of a bacon-stuffed quesadilla as one of the single most arousing images my young mind had yet conjured.

Around 11:00 p.m. we walked into base camp dragging uncoiled ropes in the snow. Greeted by someone holding out a skin of water, he said, "So I guess this means you're not a mollusk"(1).

We took gulps of water as we talked about the route and stripped ourselves of pack, crampons and harness.

In base camp we found victory snacks of candy and beer, left by fellow climbers who had since flown out. I was mindless with craving as I fired up the camp stove, chewing away at something sweet and gummy, melting butter in the pan and breaking apart frozen tortillas.

REFERENCE:

1. www.alpinist.com/doc/ALP20/sidebar-huntington-smith-1991

Cannibals

The Hell Cave dips back into the bedrock, a wide, black throat with a small constriction in the back, marking the  trace of a fault. Anyone with balls enough could squeeze through that passage for an additional forty feet. So I was told; I do not have the balls. 

THE SEND

Cannibals starts on two undercling crimps on a large protruding roof. A difficult V8/9 boulder problem guards the start. It took me several weeks of literally throwing myself around on those beginning moves before they became somewhat reliable. 

On November 17th of 2016, I executed the first two moves off the underclings, placed my right foot and kicked, throwing my hand up toward the scabrous pocket. The force of the kick threw my body several feet so that my outstretched hand just reached the next handhold. 

VEGANS FROM HELL

"Vegans" is an easier variation to Cannibals. Do the same start moves, following Cannibals for the first 1/3rd of the route, then break left into easier climbing. That summer, I kept falling around the same spot midway up the route. My finger tips kept greasing off the tiny, insecure hand holds.   

Trying to pull the moves of the middle crux from the ground.
PHOTO CREDIT: JEFF SKALLA

One day, Colin Hale and I hiked up to the cave and found someone had built a pentagram with stacked rocks. It was a little eerie, but we joked around and even added a few touches to make it more legit. I sent Vegans From Hell (5.13c) that day. Part of me wonders if I unwittingly sold my soul in exchange for the send. I was unable to repeat the route for a few months afterward, which affirmed my superstition!

TRAINING

One great method we to get stronger was to climb the hardest sequences of our route several times in a session. We paused on each move for 5-10 seconds with our leading hand hovering inches above the next hold without grasping it. This torturous method doesn't just make you stronger, but holding an extremely difficult position for several seconds forces you to fine-tune your body position for maximum efficiency. A few laps of this, and your body knows the most cost-effective way to execute the moves, minimizing energy output. As my buddy Jackson would say, "Smarter--not harder."

My hands tended to look pretty terrible after an evening of training.
PHOTO CREDIT: ANDY EARL.

Once I was too tired to run fitness laps on Cannibals, I would pick a slightly easier route that I had done many times previous and train for an additional lap or two. "Burning" 5.13b.
PHOTO CREDIT: JEFF SKALLA.

THE SEND

I did not stick the pocket on my first try that day. I fumbled, fell, lowered to the start and tried again--after re-chalking my hands. No big loss. I stuck the pocket my second try and pushed through the next few moves. Big lunges, awkward throws and then I was reaching into a desperate undercling. This was the sequence that had invariably spit me off over the last few months. From the undercling, I made the devious moves from a tiny two-finger handhold to a slightly better three-finger hold. I was breathing rhythmically, like a runner, but my breaths were deeper, increasing my focus with each inhale. Then my only foothold slipped. My fingers strained against the insecure handholds as my lower body fell away from the roof of the cave toward the ground. I managed to keep my core tight, replacing my crucial foothold. I pulled up so hard on the three-finger crimp that I brought my face level with the jug that was normally a desperate lurch! 

I had made it past the hardest part, but I still needed to climb through a 5.13b crux and a 5.12c/d crux before I could claim the send. Between the two cruxes I could get an excellent no-hands-rest by cranking my knees against the inside of a crack in the roof of the cave. The first obstacle was a blank section of wall with no features excepting a tiny pocket that fit just two fingers. I punched through the cryptic sequence of moves, dispatching the 5.13b crux smoothly while the pump in my forearms surmounted. I pulled up into the roof crack and leaned back into an inverted hang. I hung upside down there for a few minutes, letting the pump settle out of my forearms.

Hanging from the double-knee-bar before the final moves out the lip of the cave.
PHOTO CREDIT: ZAC EDDINGTON.

 STANDARD THUMB

Earlier that same day, I was feeling cooped up. My wife and kids were off shopping with friends. I was alone with nothing to do.

I jumped in my car and drove up Little Cottonwood Canyon. Before I consciously made any decisions, I was parked below a prominent feature called "The Thumb". A roughly 800' tall fin of granite capped by a squat tower, resembling aforementioned body part. The Standard Thumb (5.7) is the most common route taken to the summit. I had never climbed the route before. I took a picture of the guidebook description with my phone for reference, and went jogging up the trail. I had a mind to be quick, it was only a few hours before I was supposed to meet up with my friends in the Hell Cave.

There was a little snow on the ground, but the route was in full sun and looked pretty dry. At the base, I put my climbing shoes on and started up. The first 6 pitches were fun and went by quickly. Steep scrambling accented by periodic "mini cruxes"; all the moves felt secure. I reached "Lunch Ledge" 35 minutes after leaving the car. From there, the route follows a wide crack up through a huge granite slab. I Climbed the 7" crack methodically and with great satisfaction. From there, a quick scramble lead me to the base of the squat tower that capped the formation. Moments later, I was on the summit. I felt incredibly elated and proud. I am no soloist. I like climbing with protection. Soloing scares the shit out of me. On a route like Standard Thumb, however, I felt like a lot of gear would have unnecessarily slowed me down, turning the climb into an awkward, slow-paced slog.

The descent took longer than planned but I was still very happy for the day's achievement: Car to car 2 hours and 12 minutes. I was pretty sure this was the fastest known time but since the Thumb isn't commonly climbed using fast climbing tactics, I figured it wasn't all that special.

Putting in over time on Cannibals. Once the sun set, we would bust out flashlights and light up the whole cave.
PHOTO CREDIT: JAMES SIMMONS.

 THE SEND

I hung there, blood pooling up in my head, visualizing the next sequence of moves. I needed to do them perfectly. If I messed up or tried too hard, the pump would overcome my grip on the rock and I would fall. Painfully close to the top of the route. I was worried that I had come all this way only to fall at the lip of the Hell Cave, one bolt away from the finish. I dipped my hands into my chalk bag, being careful not to spill, then grasped the lip of the crack with both hands and slipped my knees out.

I executed the cryptic sequence of moves with precision. I found myself at the lip of the cave, my hands were stacked atop each other on a descent crimp. I pulled and reached, came up short and pulled a little harder. I managed to reach a spot adjacent to the jug I was looking for. It wasn't as positive, but it was enough. I pulled through the last couple moves and hit the dirt-filled pocket that marked the finish.

Other notable ascents of 2016:

• Malvado (5.13a) American Fork Canyon
• Junkie Pride (5.13b) Rock Canyon
• Jug Abuse (5.13 b) American Fork Canyon
• Membrane Roof (5.13a) American Fork Canyon
• X (5.13a) American Fork Canyon
• Sad Rooster (5.13b) American Fork Canyon
• Demon Wizard Bat (5.13c) Second Ascent? American Fork Canyon
• Maverick (5.13a) Hindu Tower, Moab
• Pick of Destiny (M9?) Third Ascent. Provo Canyon