2/4/2001

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.

2/7/2001

Keith sent in this link about an attempt on Thor's Hammer at East Peak in Connecticut:
Thor's Hammer (5.9)

2/18/2001

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.