It was a perfectly reasonable plan.  On Sunday when I climbed with Todd, the more aggressive of my regular partners, I'd lead Ants Line, a 5.9 G that is at the top of most people's "which 5.9 should I lead first?" list.  Ants Line is a corner that sucks up gear.  I'd been on it before with no trouble.  The crux was pumpy but protected well and the fall was clean.  It was a practically foolproof plan.

You see where this is going already, don't you? Saturday found me and Steven way down in the Nears, seeking respite from the heat and humidity in the vicinity of a chimney, White Pillar (5.7-).  Steven led the chimney, I followed, and we set up Harvest Moon, an 11a crack climb next to it, which Steven enjoyed and which made me first rip off my tape gloves, swearing at them for being in the way, and then mourn their loss as I bled all over the crux.  I needed an antidote to miserably failing on a miserable crack climb.  The slabby 5.9 PG/R Honky Tonk Woman next to us was the perfect choice. 

Of course it was. 

Really. 

Just look at this route with me for a moment:

I have to climb up to the bolt first.  It's a ways up there but the climbing looks easy.  I can probably stop and put a nut in behind that flake on the way.  It won't be a good nut but it only needs to protect one or two moves, then I'll be standing in that totally casual dip thing and I'll be able to reach the bolt from there.  The PG/R rating comes from there not really being any protection after the bolt.  The crux isn't at the bolt, or at least so goes the second-hand beta we have.  The crux is up where you go to the left of the little roof and a fall from there would be back onto the bolt.  It doesn't look all that long though.  Besides, it's obviously a cruise move.  I mean, you can see from the ground that it isn't hard at all.  5.9 slab climbing is well within my abilities and there's absolutely no death involved.

Amazingly, Steven is fine with my leading this route.  He'd never been on it either but he agreed with my assessment from the ground.  "This is going to make such a great story," I thought.  Instead of my first 5.9 being "the safest 5.9 in the Gunks" and a route I'd been on before, I'd do a 5.9 R onsight.  Not only that, but I'd do it with Steven, not Todd.  That would throw everyone for a loop.

The first few moves were a little harder than they looked.  I hate bouldery starts.  I was more relieved than I expected to be when I got to the bad nut placement.  It was a little farther off the ground than I'd thought too.  And my, look how far away that bolt still is.  I make a few more moves up to the excellent dip, the nice stance from which I am going to casually clip the bolt.

Curiously, the excellent dip turns out to be a nasty sloping ramp and I have to work my way up it before I can reach the bolt from what turns out to be a bad stance.  Somehow our view from the ground had been skewed.  Whereas the route had appeared to be very low-angle and short it was turning out to be close to vertical and with discomfortingly long gaps between features.  Anyway, the bolt is clipped now.  The next couple of moves, with the bolt comfortably nearby, are very difficult and when I finally reach a stance above the bolt I think, "Well, that must have been the crux."  The beta must be wrong.  The bolt was, of course, obviously, at the crux and there I was - through the crux and just fine, thank you.

I move up a bit farther.  Strange.  The moves seem to be getting harder again and then, right on schedule at the little roof, comes the crux. 

I don't know how long I stood there, longer than I've ever contemplated a move on lead before I'm sure.  The rock was greasy.  I was using chalk for the first time ever on lead and I was using it compulsively, trying to make the bad holds better.  That foot was too small, much too small, to step up on.  The foot on the other side was slightly better but the hands for that move were much worse.

"It looks like you just need to step up," Steven said.

"You have no idea how small this foot I need to step up on is," I told him.

"Well, you're probably going for a jug, right?"

I eyed the chalked-up thing a few feet beyond my reach.  You could call it a hold, but I wasn't going to call it a jug.

"Not exactly," I said.

"You'd cruise this on top rope," he said, which I think meant "do the damn move already."

"I don't think so," I answered.

I desperately wanted down but there was no safe going-down option.  I could downclimb and get closer to the bolt, but I couldn't reverse the hard moves just above the bolt.  The only way down was up.

I also desperately wanted to pull the move.  My first 5.9 - an onsight of a PG/R.  It would make such a good story.  Then there was my "no lead fall" streak, which stood at an amazing (for me) 40 pitches or so.  Now it was in jeopardy.  Plus, to repeat myself, the only way down was up.  I not only wanted to pull the move - I needed to.

I wasted time looking for gear (the book says the crux is well-protected if you're adept at placing gear and a friend has led this route with a nut at the crux which he fell on and it held, however small brass nuts are required and we weren't carrying any).  I wasted time looking for a better move.  I wasted time looking for a better stance to get some rest.  Finally, I told myself I was doing the move. 

"One, two, three.  Go." 

I hadn't moved.  I tried again. 

"One, two, three.  Go."

"Go!" 

I went.  I stood up.  I had done the move but I wasn't balanced.  In a panic, I flailed desperately for the next hold, now out of sight, missed it, and came off.

I had time to scream twice on the way down and Steven had time to run backwards and save me four feet or so of fall.  I huddled at the end of the rope in a fetal position.

"Are you OK?" Steven asked me.

"I'm OK," I said.

"Sure?"

"I'm OK," I repeated.  I kept repeating it, like a mantra.

"I'm going to lower you," Steven told me.

"OK," I said again.

He lowered me.  I flopped down on the ground, still curled up into a little ball.  I was taking great, heaving breaths and concentrating hard on not crying.

"Take a few deep breaths," Steven kept saying, which struck me as odd because I was practically hyper-ventilating.  "Did you hit your knee?" he asked, pointing to my right leg.  I followed his finger and saw a small hole in my pants, through which a bit of blood was visible.

"I guess so," I said.  I pulled up my pants leg to assess the damage.  In addition to the bloody spot, there were sharp, red dots sprinkled across the knee, perhaps the pattern of the crystals in the rock I hit. 

"Am I going back up there?" I asked Steven, pulling my pants leg back down.

"It's up to you," he said.  "You don't need to.  It's no problem to get our gear back."  Since the nut had self-cleaned during the fall, the "gear" in question consisted of one locking biner, but he was right, we could easily get even that back.  I paused, trying to decide if I'd be mad at myself if I didn't get back on the route.

"No," I said.  "I'd be mad at myself if I'd backed off without trying the move, but I did the move; I took the fall; it hurt.  I don't need to take that fall again right now."

"Anyway, your knee's going to hurt worse once the adrenaline wears off," Steven warned me.  He was right.  When I stood up to belay him off the rope we'd left in the chimney, I realized that I couldn't have climbed the route again anyway.  The knee was already throbbing with each step.

Steven did the route cleanly, seemingly without any difficulty at the crux.  (While he was on top rope he was also looking at a swing back into the chimney if he came off.)  That meant that he was probably right originally - I'd have cruised the move on TR.  Slab moves are my specialty.  I should have been able to pull that one.  I just need more practice keeping my head together on hard moves on lead.

I'll be back to try Honky Tonk Woman again. 

Maybe I'll try Ants Line first though. 

And a few other 5.9s that protect well. 

It would have made such a good story. 

Oh, well.  It still does.