Around four o’clock on Thursday I’d had enough climbing for the day. We’d gotten in seven pitches. I’d led four of them, including a classic 5.9 I’d onsighted in unusually good style, feeling confident, safe, and in control the whole way up. Towards the end of the day I’d tried to lead the direct start to a 5.7 and had finally given up and gone around, but when I took a second stab at it on toprope, I got even less far. I felt good about that. When I can climb a route cleanly on TR after backing off the lead, I know it was all about fear or lack of commitment. In this case, it was about tired fingers and rain-slick holds.

So I said I wouldn’t mind calling it a day even though the rope was conveniently hanging over a 10 we could TR and it wasn’t, at that very moment, raining. Yes, we’d battled the rain the whole day, but we were beginning to feel we’d conquered it, and Thursday was the worst forecast for our four days in the Daks. There was much climbing yet to come.

Me leading Labatt-Ami, 5.7. You can see the Frosted Mug corner on the left.

Friday morning’s weather was as uncertain as Thursday’s, so we headed to Owl’s Head, another crag we could walk to the top of. Thursday we’d done the Beer Walls and had developed a rhythm that seemed to keep the Rain God at bay. My theory was that the Rain God had two goals: one, to get you to stop climbing; and two, to get your gear wet. As long as we kept absolutely everything covered at absolutely every possible moment and continued climbing, even leading, despite the sprinkles, it seemed the Rain God would give up and go away. Sometimes this bright yellow thing would appear briefly in the sky surrounded by the oddest swath of blue canvas, but this was was only a lure, an attempt to lull us into leaving our approach shoes uncovered or embarking on a multi-pitch route. We were not fooled.

And thus we continued our uneasy truce with the weather gods until, lowering off a slightly-wet 5.6 crack, I felt a few sprinkles. I glanced over at my pack and saw the lid thrown back. I’d broken rule number one! Despite my mad scramble to cover the pack (nothing to see here!) the rain continued to fall. We, of course, continued to ignore it. Steven followed the increasingly-wet 5.6 crack and beefed up a directional at the top so we could TR an unnamed seam between lines. The rain was picking up. When he touched down and I suggested he could take the first stab at the seam, he merely laughed. We left our rope up and our packs covered and grabbed lunch and headed to higher ground.

Twenty minutes later, we were in full retreat mode. The rope was soaked through and our packs were discovered to be sitting in the path of a stream that had formed down the approach trail. We safely rescued all our gear and hiked out. Of course, before we got back to the car the rain had stopped and the road didn’t look any wetter than it had when we started out that morning, but this time we, and all our gear, were a lot wetter. We called it a day. Still, we’d each led a pitch and TR’d a route in between. Ten pitches wasn’t the worst two days we’d ever had and the weather was only going to get better. Steven headed into town and I headed out to do what I do best in the rain, which is run.

I splashed along a muddy trail that led continuously uphill. At first I tried to keep my feet out of the puddles but a few meadow crossings soon made the effort futile. I was wet to the knees. The rain started again and my upper body became as wet as my lower body. But I was running. I was trail running for the first time since the race and I was loving it. I felt like I was flying. More importantly, I felt like I was running.

On a muddy trail in full-on conditions, you don’t have to be moving fast to feel like a hero. I was completely alone in a lush, beautiful world. I fell twice, scraping elbows and knees. I ran through a patch of nettles that first stung and then itched. I kept on until the trail I was running disappeared into a swollen pond and then I turned around and ran back. I was out a little longer than I meant to be but I felt like I’d returned from another world.

Steven hadn’t had a euphoric runner’s experience. Steven had had the internet. The internet had nothing good to stay about Saturday and it wasn’t making any promises about Sunday. Over an excellent dinner of spicy pasta and oak-y Chardonnay, I tried to explain my reasons for staying at the Daks. Those first few pitches that first day were what I needed to heal a weary soul. The Gunks were great, but I’d been there. We could run at the Daks; we could hike. It was beautiful here. We had good company, good food, new experiences. We agreed to stay. But tomorrow, if it was raining . . .

I had wanted so much to make this trip work. I prepared in every way I could think of: packed three pairs of shoes, had two ropes, brought crossword puzzles and running gear and a bottle of wine. I had pleaded with the Rain God, engaged in superstitious rituals, compromised, settled, been ridiculously optimistic and spoke only the positive. I had lowered my expectations and, without fail, the Rain God had failed to meet them.

Friday night it poured. Saturday morning it was still raining. We sat in the diner drinking coffee. I was dressed as though I would climb, but I knew where we would be climbing. Steven tried to reason his way through my stubborn silence. “There was never any question,” I finally told him. Everything was wet, not just the rock but my clothes, my gear, my resolve. The Rain God could have his way. We would go.

Driving down to the Gunks, the sun shining overhead on a lovely day with the promise of another lovely day yet to come, I cried. My heart was still in the Daks. My mind wanted what I had been promised. What I had promised myself. The Daks trip in my mind, the one where Steven and I climbed new, dry rock and I led challenging, well-protected test pieces with confident competence–that trip had never existed. And yet I mourned the hideous waste of potential wonderfulness. It could have been great. Instead those few glorious moments faded to same-old, same-old. Back to the Gunks.

I like the Gunks; I love the Gunks; I’ve been happy at the Gunks. I wanted the Daks.

I can be such a quitter. But there is a time when you’ve tried enough, a time to go on and be happy where you’re wanted. And then later, when you’re not so tired or sad, there’s a time to realize that it was never about you. The weather is what it is. Gods are who they are. I can’t talk or compromise or wheedle or behave my way into sunshine. The Rain God won’t change to suit me. He never cared if my pack was open, or if I was on lead, or if I was stubbornly waiting him out. He never even noticed. All I can do is walk away, and the rain will continue, or not, as if I was never there.

Some day there will be another trip to the Daks. Not that one, not the one I dreamed of, but maybe a real one.

Thursday – Beer Walls
Labatt-Ami, 5.7 (Dawn)
Flying & Drinking and Drinking & Driving, 5.10 (TR)
Frosted Mug, 5.9 (Dawn)
Seven Ounces, 5.7 (Steven)
3.2, 5.4 (Dawn)
Lichenbrau, 5.7 (Dawn)
Lichenbrau Dark. 5.9+ (TR)

Friday – Owl’s Head

Saturday – the Gunks
Madame G’s, 5.6 (Steven)
Columnbia, 5.9 (Dawn)
Dismantle, 5.10 (Steven)
Datmantle, 5.10 (TR)