Pushing forward, sliding back

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Andrei puts a hex on me

“You should lead Bonnie’s,” I tell Andrei.

“I’m really careful pushing my leading limit,” he says.

“Bonnie’s is cake,” I argue. “Plus you can put gear in wherever you want from practically a no-hands stance.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “I’ve always found it really awkward to clean gear under the roof.”

“Oh sure,” I waffle, “the roof.”

So now I’m wildly stuffing gear in under the roof from some sort of sqrunched up position I’ve never achieved before and with good reason. The first piece I throw in is a nut so bomber that the cliff would have to disintegrate around it before it would pop.

Any reasonable person would now pull through the next couple of moves with equanimity. But I’m no longer a reasonable person. I’m now a terrified sport-climbing weenie who can’t make a move without a bolt at her waist. I grab the sling from the nut and lower myself down onto it. I look sulkily over my shoulder at the crowd below (why is there always a crowd?).

“Sad,” I say. “I’ve never had to hang on Bonnie’s before.”

“Don’t grab pieces until you’re below them,” Todd tells me. It’s probably a good rule of thumb but he doesn’t know that you’d have to turn the cliff over and shake it to get the nut out so I just pout at him.

“I’m coming down,” I say. I don’t mean it yet; I’m just testing the waters.

“Then put in two more pieces,” he says. Well, sure. If I could hang up there long enough to put in two more pieces I could pull the move, couldn’t I? Which is why he’s always saying that, I think. He knows that once I have another piece in I’ll just pull the stinking move. I put a cam in near the edge of the roof and pull the stinking move. It’s just one move to the left. This is why Bonnie’s is cake. Once you get to the part where you think it’s going to be hideously hard, once you grab that first nose, it’s really all over. I used to know that.

Andrei’s fault.

True to form

You’d think that after the Bonnie’s debacle I’d spend the rest of the day top-roping quietly but when Todd mentions that Ant’s Line (5.9) is about to open up I know immediately that I’m going to lead it.

There’s no chance I’m going to get this clean – a prediction I make before even starting. But the point is to get it safely and Ant’s Line is the best protected 5.9 in the Gunks.

I make steady progress up to the crux. At one point I think about the fact that I’ve just made the three best nut placements of my life all in a row. The roof itself I plan to protect with a cam. Todd has suggested the Camalot Juniors. For once Todd is wrong. I try cam after cam in the corner at the far edge of the roof. Nothing will go in. As with the Bonnie’s roof, it’s a bad stance from which I have to place gear. I’m seriously considering the possibility that I’m going to come off just placing the crux gear and have to step down several times to rest.

Finally I give up on placing anything at the outside edge of the roof and stuff a cam in directory overhead.

“Good,” I say.

“Does that mean the pieces is good?” Todd asks and I can hear the relief in his voice.

I step back down to clip it and gather my strength as best I can. This isn’t exactly a rest down here. Then I start pulling around the roof, quickly, desperately. I know I’ve had it at one point and start looking down and back, trying to figure out how to get back to my gear.

“The next hold is good,” Todd yells up. And somewhere in me I find the fortitude to go for it. I snatch for the hold, feel my fingertips against it, understand that I’m not going to get it.

“Falling!” I yell, surprising myself. I’ve never managed anything more than a scream before. I fall down and into the corner. It takes a moment and it takes forever. I hit with a bump and then everything is still. I start to laugh.

I don’t know why it’s funny now except that I’m alive and not terrified anymore. I’ve tried so hard to avoid this, falling, that it’s unexpectedly easy to hang from the rope and look up at the cams and the crux and know that I came from there and that I’m going back up there.

I pull through easily on the second try. Better rested, moving smoothly, knowing where the finishing hold is, I make the crux look easy this time. I mantle onto the ledge, stand up, and throw my arms in the air.

“I’m alive!” I shout.

“Did you say off belay?” Todd asks.

I think he was kidding.

Back on the sharp end

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I had been saying and saying (and saying and saying) that I wanted my first lead of the season to be smooth and easy. No fear, no falling, no whining, no hanging, no backing off. So why the hell am I racking up for my old nemesis City Lights? After I finally led it cleanly last season I vowed to never go near the thing again. It’s not just the hideous 5.10 crux right off the deck; it’s the runnout 5.6 above the crux to the first belay. I hate this stinking route.

So here I am, one piece in (one piece! I’m feeling brave), stepping up and stepping down, just knowing that I’m going to have to either back off or fall. I thought I remembered how to do this move but I didn’t remember it being so tenuous, which is why I hate this route.

As usual, I’m pelted with beta.

“Try this,” says Todd.

“I do it this way,” says the woman racking up to lead Pas de Deux.

“That’s not how I do it,” says her partner.

“I know how to do it,” I mutter.

At least I learned one thing last year. I learned that I can go up and down without falling. I can try to do it. Each attempt brings me closer and then bam! I’ve got it.

“Hey! I wasn’t looking,” the woman next door says.

“I did it a totally different way,” I tell her. It’s my theory that you get style points deducted for doing the City Lights crux the same way twice or for using any method previously used by any human being at any point in history. It’s like a parlor game.

Then I’m dashing up the runout stuff above, remembering why else I hate this route. And then I’m nearly at the belay and Todd is yelling at me to go for the top, which is another reason I hate this route because he always wants me to go for the top which means being run out due to both lack of protection opportunities and a dwindling number of slings.

“The hell with him,” I think and then I get to the belay and remember that I also hate this route because the belay is crap, especially if you’re trying to share it with someone else which you always are. And so I go for the top.

At the top I remember that I also hate this route because the belay at the top is also crap, especially if you’re trying to share it with someone else which you always are. Oh well, at least I have the dead tree all to myself. The other leader hasn’t clipped it – the fool!

While I’m at the top fiddling in a nut behind a flake that certainly won’t hold, Todd is on the ground trying to reason with the next party.

“Wow! Is that the first belay?”

“No, she’s on top.”

“She can’t be on top, dude!”

“Trust me; she’s on top.”

Finally I’m off belay (thank God for the dead tree) and he’s on belay and climbing. It’s a beautiful view from this ledge and beautiful day to be on it. But I still hate this route.

The Worst Boulderers in the World

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On a dreary Saturday Todd and I head out to find the bouldering mecca so frequently touted on Gunks.com: Ice Pond (ice, ice baby). We go “just to look” but bring our shoes and a chalk bag. We don’t bring a crashpad because we don’t own one. This turns out to be unfortunate when Todd jumps off an attempted “send” and thwacks his heel on a rock.

All in all, we don’t make it to the top of a single chalked problem through a combination of fear and lack of skill. I can’t help but wonder why we’re willing to climb the first 20 feet of a route before getting protection but unwilling to top out on a 15 foot high boulder. Well, I said it already. A combination of fear and lack of skill.

I’ve decided on a new bouldering rating scale.

D0 = Dawn can do it
D1 = Dawn can’t do it

I put up several D0 first ascents. If you’re interested, just look for the chalk on the easy side of boulders under 6 feet in height.

Jean: The Life-Cycle of a Route

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This is the story of a route at the Gunks named Jean, rated 5.9 because the 10c roof is so very short. Jean is typically climbed in four phases.

In Phase I, the 5.9 leader climbs up to the roof wherein he encounters THE THING. THE THING used to be a Lowe Ball, or at least some sort of ball nut, though there are some who contend that it used to be an Alien. Either way, nothing is left of its original form but a twisted skeleton and enough essence of color to feel that, whatever it may once have been, it was once blue. The 5.9 leader clips it because, however you may feel about THE THING, it’s in exactly the spot where one would like to imagine being caught if one fell. Naturally, he backs it up. He then pulls over the roof far enough to see that the route apparently ends below the roof. There are no holds up there. He downclimbs to the rest stance and Phase I is over.

In Phase II, the 5.9 leader makes multiple round trips from the rest stance to that spot just over the roof from which it is so glaringly obvious that one can’t go on. On each trip, he adds a backup piece. In my experience, the maximum number of pieces that a leader will place from the same stance is four. Three pieces is an anchor. Four pieces mid-route is clearly excessive. Five pieces might set some sort of record which would be reported to Climbing Magazine or at least Gunks.com, branding one forever as a sport-climbing coward who can’t pull a move without a bolt at his waist. Thus, once the four-piece max has been reached (three backup pieces plus THE THING), phase II ends.

In Phase III, the 5.9 leader wearies of the six foot downclimb to the rest stance and starts hanging on his gear instead. This inspires enough confidence for him to actually fall on the gear, which fall turns out to be exactly 6 inches long including rope stretch. The duration of Phase III varies by stubbornness but anyone who manages to dislodge THE THING should consider that Phase III is over.

In Phase IV, the 5.9 leader’s partner goes up and finishes the route. It is therefore critical to secure the services of a 5.10c leader before starting up in the first place. Anyone who fails in this regard is required to lower off THE THING and may God have mercy on his soul.

Update: In December, 2001 we discovered that the original blue THING had disappeared and that a brand new shiny red Lowe Ball had appeared in its place. Although this does temporarily change the nature of the route, I have faith that in time the shiny new Lowe Ball will become an unrecognizable THING with only enough essence of color to suggest that, whatever it once was, it was once red.

Further update: THE THING is no more, neither blue nor red. Although I’ve since learned how to lead Jean with or without THE THING, I will always miss it. There are other gear options, but none so tantalizingly well placed as THE THING was.

Saturday & Sunday

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Saturday, first thing (“first thing” being a relative term that in this case means approximately 10:30): We wander down from the Uberfall, looking for an open route under 5.10 and finally settle on a short wait for Birdie Party, the first pitch of which is 5.8 but scary 5.8. Todd’s jittery enough to place the purely psychological brass nut that theoretically protects the opening moves, something he hasn’t done since the day he had me hang on it to see if it would hold. It did. For a minute. Above the piece and safely on the ledge from which he usually starts placing gear, he whips the rope with enough force to dislodge the nut. He does love a nice straight line.

Saturday, mid-day: I desperately want to get the first crux on MF clean but I don’t. Hanging from the rope I start to cry from frustration then realize I can’t breathe. I’m hyperventilating, great gasps that procure no oxygen. Perhaps I was holding my breath; perhaps I’m simply psyched. For a minute I think I’m going to throw up but I don’t. I find a better-than-usual way to do the second crux. One step forward; one step back.

Saturday, the end: I dyno for that hold on Try Again like I mean it. On one attempt I even get it – quickly sorry. Damn but real rock is sharp. Ultimately I take the detour. My fingers have been rubbed raw. I come so close to pulling the roof on the first try. If only . . . “Don’t give me beta!” I scream. It takes me three tries but I do it myself. Try, try again.

Sunday, first thing: What would a weekend at the Gunks be without doing Apoplexy and Coronary? It’s not likely that I’ll ever find out. We do Apoplexy and Coronary. Thank God I actually like these routes.

Sunday, mid-day: Pink Laurel feels easy today. Is it because I’m not leading it? Probably. Have I found a great new way to do the moves? Maybe. Will I remember this great new way the next time I try to lead it? No.

Sunday, the end: We con Andrew into leading Maria Direct, where the crux is placing the gear and the gear must be placed. He’s standing at the upper limit of where he can still hope that the rope will catch him, fiddling with gear, looking pumped. Todd steps away from the rock, eyeing the line he’ll take if Andrew falls. I move into place to spot Andrew. The fall, not so far, a boulderer would do it, has some serious tip-over-backwards-and-open-your-head potential. I’ve got no idea what I’m doing. Andrew places two good pieces and finishes the route cleanly. No one is happier than I am.

I pull through the opening moves of Maria Direct with something approaching confidence and then fall from the higher crux. The opposite of how I usually do. A good summary for the whole weekend. One step forward, one step back, nothing where it should be, everything in place.

Lyme Disease – A Climber’s Primer

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I came home from the gym one night and found what I assumed was a chigger bite beneath the elastic of my sports bra. I’d heard about climbers getting chiggers at the Gunks. The bites–similar in appearance to a very large mosquito bite–are intensely itchy and appear in warm, moist, constricted areas. My bite hardly itched at all.

“These aren’t so bad,” I thought.

Over the next few days the bite increased in size, but it still didn’t itch much. Then a red rash started to appear. Each day it grew larger. The entire area felt warm to the touch and looked kind of puffy. Finally, on day six, I made a doctor’s appointment.

“Make sure you get tested for Lyme disease,” a friend said.

I shrugged it off. I’d never seen a tick and the rash looked nothing like a bulls-eye; it was oblong and mottled with a ragged edge. The next morning I took a quick peek in the mirror. The rash had grown again and now I could see a vague bulls-eye pattern.


My rash didn’t look anything like a bulls-eye until day 6

So I was only mildy surprised when the doctor took one look at it and called it Lyme disease. A stroll through the internet confirmed the diagnosis for me–some of the pictures might have been labeled with my name.

Luckily I was diagnosed early and completely cured. There’s no reason to believe that my brief infection will ever bother me again. But not all Lyme disease stories have such happy endings. You can reduce your risk of infection and serious complications by asking yourself the following questions:

Am I at risk?

The greatest number of reported cases occur in the Northeastern, Middle Atlantic and upper Midwest states although Lyme disease has been found in almost every US state and in many other countries. The top 10 states for Lyme Disease, representing 90% of reported cases, are: New York, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Wisconsin, Rhode Island, Maryland, Massachusetts, Minnesota and Delaware, but there’s also a concentration of Lyme disease in northernwestern California.

You’re most likely to get Lyme disease during the late spring or summer.

What can I do to avoid being bitten by a tick?

Unfortunately, many of the usual suggestions for preventing Lyme disease infection don’t work very well for climbers. Avoiding wooded and grassy areas during the late spring and early summer months would certainly cut into your climbing, and it might be difficult to climb wearing long sleeves, long pants, and high rubber boots with your pants tucked into your socks.

You can, however, follow the recommendations to dress in light-colored clothes (makes ticks easier to spot before they attach themselves), to apply DEET to exposed areas*, and to check yourself thoroughly for ticks after possible exposure. Ticks start from the ground and climb upwards until they meet an obstruction. This makes any area with elastic suspect. Very small ticks may best be found by feel. Experts recommend a shower after exposure to rinse off any ticks that are not yet attached. As you wash, feel for small bumps.

* No, DEET won’t harm your rope. See Blue Water’s Dynamic Rope Care

Will I know if I’ve been bitten by a tick?

Not necessarily since the bite itself is usually painless. Deer ticks are small to begin with and the juveniles, the ones that bite during climbing season, are about the size of a small freckle. The tick may remain attached for up to 48 hours but when it has finished feeding it will drop off by itself. You may never know it’s there.

What if I find a tick?

The current recommendation for tick removal is to use a pair of fine-point tweezers to gently pull the tick’s fangs away from your skin. Many of the recommendations for tick removal made in the past, such as burning off the tick with a cigarette end or smothering it in Vaseline, have now been determined to increase your chances of becoming infected.

Luckily, being bitten by a tick, even one that is carrying Lyme disease, does not guarantee that you will be infected.

How will I know if I have Lyme disease?

Approximately 80% of patients will get a rash at the site of the bite. The rash may resolve into the classic bulls-eye look–rings of red, broken by rings of white–but it may remain formless. It may develop anywhere from days to weeks after the initial bite. In dark-skinned people, the rash may look more like a bruise. The area may feel warm or tender and may itch.

Any rash (or bruise in darker-skinned people) that grows in size is a source of concern. A small rash at the site of the bite that doesn’t grow is probably a localized reaction to the bite itself.

The rash may be accompanied by flu-like symptoms. Some people experience the flu-like symptoms without the rash or the rash without any other symptoms.

If you climb in a high-incidence area, you should keep an eye on any bug bite. If a rash develops around it, see a doctor to be tested. You should also consider seeing a doctor if you’ve been in a high-incidence area and develop flu symptoms without having been exposed to the flu.

What happens if I get Lyme disease?

You’ll be put on antibiotics. An initial course of 3 to 6 weeks is common. The prognosis varies considerably depending on how quickly the disease is caught and treated. If the disease is caught early, the initial course of antibiotics will probably be 100% effective.

What happens if I don’t get treated?

The rash will disappear on its own eventually, perhaps in less than a week, along with any other symptoms you may have had. But in 3 to 5 months you may start to experience secondary symptoms. The most common secondary symptom is pain in the large joints. Other symptoms include chronic fatigue, neurological disorders, kidney disorders and heart disorders. If the disease isn’t discovered until secondary symptoms start appearing, longer courses of antibiotics, intravenous antibiotics, and other courses of treatment may be necessary. Most cases of Lyme disease are eventually cured but some people suffer from lifelong complications.

If you have a suspect rash and for some reason you are not able (or not willing) to see a doctor immediately, consider taking a picture of your rash. Tests for Lyme disease aren’t very reliable, so clinical evidence is important in making a diagnosis. If secondary symptoms later develop, a photo of the original rash will be helpful.

Is there a vaccine?

There is currently one FDA approved vaccine called LYMErix. The vaccine consists of a series of three shots, spread over a year. The first shot should be administered in March. Maximum resistance to Lyme disease (approximately 80%) is not reached until after the third shot. It is not known at this time whether the vaccine continues to be maximally effective for more than a year after the last shot. Evidence appears to indicate that booster shots will be necessary. Also, LYMErix does not prevent the transmission of any tick-borne disease other than Lyme disease.

Should I get the vaccine?

The CDC recommends that people aged 15 to 70 who are at high risk should consider getting the vaccine. The vaccine is not recommended for people who are already suffering from Lyme arthritis or women who are pregnant.

However, there is considerable controversy over the vaccine, including lawsuits from people who claim that the vaccine caused Lyme disease in them. (The CDC, as of June 1999, does not agree that this is the case.) When you talk to your doctor, don’t be surprised if he or she is less than enthusiastic about the vaccine. Many doctors, and most of the Lyme-related organizations, are taking a wait-and-see attitude about the vaccine.

What if I’ve already had Lyme disease?

Having Lyme disease once doesn’t make you immune in the future. Fortunately, you can still consider the vaccine as long as you’ve been completely cured.

Where can I go for more information?

The Center for Disease Control’s Lyme disease page
American Lyme Disease Foundation
Lyme Disease Network
The Lyme Disease Foundation

Armonk

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On Sunday Todd and I went to a small crag with uncertain access in Armonk, NY. We climbed three routes on TR. I have no idea what the names or official ratings of these routes are. I rate them: too hard for a warmup, harder than that, and much too thin for such a cold day.

The middle line is a favorite of Todd’s because it’s “pure”. I think “pure” in this case means “straight”. Anyway, it wasn’t a favorite of mine because it was comprised almost entirely of long moves between pumpy stances. I flailed on it quite a bit but eventually suceeded in making all the moves, including one that was so long it seemed hopelessly out of reach. I’ve always been a very static climber, partly by nature, partly from fear, and partly because I’m just plain bad at aiming for a hold and latching onto it quickly enough to keep from falling off.

Strangely, if there’s once facet of my climbing that has improved as a result of my time off, it’s that latching thing. I keep surprising myself, both outside and inside, by springing for a far away hold and actually catching it.

Todd fancies another go at his pure line but once was enough for me. Instead I eye a left-arching (i.e., not pure) variation. It’s thin and technical, more my type of climbing but a bit problematic in this weather. The cold numbs my fingers to the point that it’s hard to tell a good hold from a bad hold or to know how hard I should pull.

With each move up I get both closer to the anchor vertically and farther away horizontally. I reach for a hold and find it worthless, then, as I start to barndoor off, not keen on the impending pendulum, I make a quick grab for another hold and actually nab it. I’m still on, victorious! It doesn’t last for long. The moves get harder and each time I come off the swing, and the resulting effort to get back on, gets worse. Eventually I give up and come down.

I chatter happily about my “most excellent latch”. Todd was belaying lazily with his back to the rock and hasn’t seen a thing which gives me an excuse to describe my efforts in detail. I’m happy, pleased with my climbing which seems almost up to par again, and having enjoyed the route and also the thought that once Todd takes a last stab at the pure line we’ll pack up and go someplace warm to get something to eat and a drink.

I belay him, hands now snug in my gloves and starting to warm. Then, a pang. Something is wrong with one of my fingers. I’ve pulled/torn/damaged something in my left ring finger, probably while making the “most excellent latch”. Damn. I knew I was a static climber for a reason. It’s my first injury of this sort since I started climbing and I know it means a long, frustrating struggle with choosing between recovering and climbing. But that’s the future and this is now and it was a good day.

Time Off

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I’m cold and confused. I got up here OK, all those nice blocky things to put my feet on. But now, those ripples, surely one doesn’t put one’s feet on them? And the tree I slung, so far away from me, it must be six feet at least. I should put in gear but I can’t quite figure it out. What kind of a thing goes into that small, flaring, horizontal crack? And how would I get it up there without stepping on one of those ripples?

This is Jackie, for heaven’s sake. How many times have I led this? I can’t even remember, three at least.

Who’d have thought I could lose so much ground just by taking a month off from climbing. But it’s been more than a month since I climbed outside and even more than that since I led. People like to give out that friction is better in lower temps but that’s only true down to a certain point. Somewhere around freezing your feet feel like wooden blocks and the rock grows slick like marble.

I didn’t mean to jump right out on the sharp end but it was offered and I didn’t say no. “Get it over with,” I thought but I see now it was a mistake. Nothing about this makes any sense to me and I’m indecesive and befuddled. It’s freezing. Todd and Steven wait below. One of them suggests that I come down and I think, “yes, no point in everyone standing around in this cold” but it’s harder to come down than I expected.

I bump against the tree lightly and suddenly I don’t trust it for anything. My concious mind doesn’t register the significance of the hollow thump until I’m safely down but something in me is refusing to lower off it. Another example of how much I’ve lost, I think, but the tree beneath Classic is partly gone today. How far behind it can this one be? (Todd told me later that the right fork of the tree on Jackie has always been hollow but that the left fork is OK.)

I downclimb shakily and turn over the lead to Steven. Later, climbing on toprope, I put my feet on the ripples and they stick but every move seems more awkward, more strenuous than it should. I’m using the ripples but I’m not trusting them.

Todd leads Classic. At one point his foot slips and I’m sure he’ll fall but he catches himself. He reaches the icy area near the top and now I’m panicked. He hasn’t got gear in for miles and he’s saying those things about being screwed and dying. He says them often and I always tell people “you just say OK and then he does the move and everything’s fine” but today I’m crying. I don’t want him to get hurt; I don’t want to see him get hurt. I’ve lost my nerve all the way around it seems. But then he’s putting in gear under the roof and he’s fine.

I climb third on Classic, cleaning as I go. I can’t feel my feet and have to stop every few moves to warm my hands again. When Todd suggests a move to the Uberfall for some warmer air, I hold out for a move to Bacchus for even warmer air.

It seems I’ve done almost nothing – two moderate routes I’ve climbed many times before – but on Monday every muscle in my body is aching.

Trapped Like a Rat–a love story begins

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One day when I was feeling cocky and poised to start leading 5.9, I posited to Steven that there wasn’t a 5.7 at the Gunks that could scare me anymore. He recommended Trapped Like a Rat. Alas, the opportunity to prove him wrong didn’t present itself immediately and then came the dark days of my lead head woes when any 5.7 could scare me.

Now that I’ve got most of my confidence back and a couple of 5.9s under my belt, a discussion about sandbags on gunks.com brought Trapped Like a Rat to my mind again. So when Todd asked me what I wanted to do on Saturday, I tentatively ventured that I’d like have a go at it.

It is obvious from the ground that the start protects well and I took immediate advantage of that fact by placing gear every foot or so. The stances aren’t great and I was doing a bit of climbing both up and down until I finally worked out a sequence that got me around the initial lump where I got in one more piece and then panicked. Climbing back down once again, I slipped and took what amounted to a top rope fall off the top piece. Startled but fine, I dangled and assessed.

Todd pointed out a hold I’d missed to the left and I marched back up there and pulled through this thoughtful, but not really difficult, start. From there easier moves led to a large wedge-shaped ledge. I ambled across to the other side of the ledge and checked out my next move, which appeared to be a mantle onto the nose that formed the right side of the missing pie piece I was standing in. I didn’t see any gear.

“Sling that tree,” Todd said.

“That tree is a twig,” I answered.

“Well, you’re in ground fall range over there,” Todd replied.

Although I’d placed a piece about as high as possible before pulling onto the ledge, my total distance from the ground wasn’t that great and the walk across the ledge meant too much rope was out. Steven had mentioned that, whereas some people mantle straight up onto the nose, other people pull around it and climb the slab on the other side. Mindful of my tenuous situation, I cautiously peered around the nose.

“At least walk around the tree,” Todd insisted.

“That tree is not keeping me off the ground,” I told him. “This can’t be right. This is supposed to be a 5.7G.” I kept wandering back left to check out my options in that direction. If I just went left I’d have both gear and what looked like easy climbing. This nose to the right . . . it didn’t matter whether I mantled it or circumnavigated it, I hated it either way.

“Are we sure the route goes to the right?” I tried. Todd was sure. “Well, I’m coming down then. Or I’m finishing up left, whatever. I’m not soloing that move.”

Todd suggested I put in gear to the left, try the move to the right, then come back down, remove the gear, and do the move again. I was just checking out how high I could get gear to the left when inspiration struck.

“Brainstorm!” I said. I moved back to the right and kneeled down on the ledge. Sure enough, there was a nice crack between the bottom of the nose and the ledge. I placed a big, secure cam and stood back up. I now had gear in. Granted, it was at my feet before I even started, but at least it would keep me off the ground.

I decided to do the mantle. Although it was very likely a more strenuous move, it felt more secure than oozing my way around the corner and up the featureless slab. Once my feet were up on the nose I was happy to discover that I could immediately get good gear from a good stance. In fact, I was so happy I put in three pieces.

Here then was the crux. A roof, of course; this is the Gunks. I grabbed jug number one with my left hand, stepped up, grabbed jug number two with my right hand, stepped up, and whoa! jug number three was a long damned ways away. I stepped back down.

Well, it took more tries than it should have, considering I had three good pieces in, but I did finally work up the courage to let go with my left hand and go for that third jug. Hanging from jug #3, I fiddled around with clipping a manky-looking pin off to my right. I was silently chiding myself – “just step up and the route is over” – but couldn’t bring myself to move along without clipping it.

When my right hand was relieved of clipping duty it immediately sought out jug #4 but without success. Jug #4, as it turned out, was a featureless finger crack – not my idea of a hold to finish pulling over a roof with. At that point I was more than glad I’d clipped the pin – I was considering backing it up! But with a last ditch effort I brought my feet up and over the roof and stood up. The route was over (aside from some 5.0 scrambling up snowy ledges to the top).

Although this was the second weekend in a row that my most impressive lead was, well, not very impressive, it was also the second weekend in a row that I lowered off feeling positive about the experience. Trapped Like a Rat had it all – the bold, the bad, and the ugly. And I enjoyed it.