2/16/02

It's such a beautiful day for February that it would be a beautiful day for April. There's no reason why we can't climb anything we want today, even multi-pitch, but for some reason I have my heart set on bouldering.

Perhaps it's just stress-avoidance, to not have to lead for the day, but I like to believe that bouldering is good for me, unlike a day of TR'ing, which is also stress-free but does nothing to ease my worries for the next time I step up to lead. Besides, I need to get strong again after my annual January layoff and the routes I'm capable of leading don't exactly challenge my strength (physical strength, that is).

Skytop in the distance on a beautiful February Day

So I put my foot down, claim that it's my day to decide what we're going to do, and we load Todd's mattress-sized bouldering pad into the car and set off for the Gunks.

We start with the 5.9 variation to the left of Keyhole, a route I have some history with in that it was the scene of one of my less forgivable temper tantrums. I should be able to climb 5.9 and the fact that I couldn't that day, even on TR, caused me to pitch a fit of disproportionate proportions.

On our first-ever day of bouldering we also started with this route. On that day, it wasn't clear if I couldn't make the last couple of moves or wouldn't make the last couple of moves. Ah well, it was only practice that day, learning to land on the pad and to spot each other.

Today I have to get used to dropping onto the pad all over again. I get a move higher with each attempt until I reach that point where it's all or nothing. Todd has done it by now, ready to move on to the next problem, it only remains for me to finish. I jump.

Someone in position for the dyno on the Gill Egg

"I don't really have to go any higher than that," I explain to Todd from the ground, "and I've already dropped from there. If I move my hands and don't make it, it'll be the same fall."

He agrees, not that there's anything to agree with. I'm stating the obvious in an attempt to talk myself into moving, instead of freezing, the next time I'm up there.

I climb back up to my high point, place my left foot on the edge Todd's found for me, higher than the one he uses but probably better, carefully move my right foot so that it's against the crack instead of in the crack so that I won't flip if I fall. I pause. I look up. Funny, the top seems easily reachable from here and I feel so stable. I think I can just take my right hand out of the constriction and calmly put it right up there on top. I'm sure I can. It really feels like I can. Yes, certainly I can.

I do.

Now for the bad part - I still have to jump. It's not like my feet are any higher, but my head is, so it feels higher. Ugh. I don't like jumping.

This is why I imagine that bouldering's good for me - the steady pushing forward, one move at a time, with no promise of sudden safety if I make it, and then the intentional fall. I can hang there as long as I like and unless someone comes along with a ladder, sooner or later I will have to fall. There's no slamming in an emergency piece to hang on, no specter of the stance to come if I can only pull through this next move, no asking Todd to take over the lead for me. Do the move, take the fall, black and white.

Someone getting into position to start the Gill Egg

Triumphant on this route at last, we move on. The Gill Egg next to us is empty. A ridiculous dyno problem I have no hope of ever sending, we give it a try for the sheer bouldering-ness of it - you don't have to be able to do it to try it.

"Why don't your feet slam into the rock when you fall off?" I ask Todd petulantly after striking my soles against the slab beneath the roof yet again.

"Because I swing them out before I let go," he tells me.

"If I could swing my feet without falling off, I wouldn't be falling off," I complain, but on subsequent attempts I do somehow become more capable of getting my feet under me before I hit the ground. I guess it just needed thinking on.

Before too long we're joined by about a hundred other people, psyched by the meatiness of our pad. A lot of them can actually do the problem, including one guy who manages to do it statically, to great applause from the spectators, including me.

Although the atmosphere is social and entertaining, we eventually reclaim our pad and shuffle off. I'm too intimidated to step up for my turn at the plate when it takes me five moves just to get into the starting position, especially considering that getting into the starting position was actually kind of my goal for the day.

Note: it turns out this next problem is called the Middle traverse. No wonder it didn't seem low!

So we move under Doug's Roof and start the Low Traverse. I've seen people on this before, often without a pad or spotters, but I've never tried it. So far Todd and I have stuck to problems with simple, obvious landings, where the pad can be placed once and then forgotten till needed. The Low Traverse is, well, a traverse. Todd sets out first and I struggle to keep the pad beneath him, he moves so fast. I'm terrified that he's going to fall while I'm looking down and either a) land on me, b) miss the pad because I don't have it positioned right, or c) topple over backwards and hit his head because I'm not spotting him.

The starting holds on the Gill Egg

Todd arrives at the end of the traverse without incident. Now it's my turn. I'm moving too slowly, that's the obvious problem. The holds aren't really bad, though they have that soapy feel that chalk-caked holds under roofs at the Gunks sometimes get. If I swung confidently between them, crossing through instead of shuffling, smearing my feet instead of looking for that perfect foot hold, I might have the endurance to get through this.

I'm too cautious, too hesitant. I get to about the middle of the traverse where the feet disappear altogether and can't go on. My God! I'm so high up. Low Traverse, indeed.

The High Traverse, which Todd works next, having mastered the Low Traverse on his first try, is absolutely no higher at its highest point. It is scarier though, because in order to make those first few traversing moves you'd actually have to get horizontal. Todd is unwilling. He jumps.

I try the Low again, then try the High for jollies. The moves up to the start of the High are delicate and slabby, a nice change for my tired arms. I enjoy working out the intricate body position options, so close to the ground and so much more my style, but then I've succeeded at last and am up to the two-finger pocket where the real fun begins.

Got Milk? Todd totters along with bouldering pad in tow

I grope around the horizontal crack that starts the hairy traverse, trying to decide if I can hold on long enough to at least bail safely. I have absolutely no desire to fall on my back from this height and no delusion that I can actually do the traverse. It's only a question of whether or not to try the next move.

This is why bouldering is good for me, I remind myself, and make the next move, swinging out under the roof proper. I throw a hand up for the next hold and get it. Even Todd didn't go past here. I lower my legs and look at the pad way down there beneath me, nothing but air between us. I'm glad it's so big. I don't know how those boulderers with pads about the size of Crazy Creek chairs do it.

That's enough of the High Traverse for me. I make two more attempts at the Low, one starting from the other direction, but never manage to get through the blank area in the middle. On my last attempt I call down that I'm going to jump and Todd exhorts me to continue on, to try at least. I make once last hand shuffle and come off, not jumping this time but really falling. To my surprise, I make my best landing of the day, square on the pad and upright. Surprised, dizzy from the adrenaline rush, I lean back to lay down and fall off the edge of the pad. A perfect landing and I failed to stick it!

By now my arms are like rubber and my fingertips are raw. Even Todd can't make it through the Low Traverse again. We assemble our light, though bulky, belongings, and totter off down the carriage road. Just a couple of anonymous boulders out for another high-fun, low-commitment day.

2/24/02

I wouldn't have chosen the Nears today, a day that's only barely gorgeous for February. The Nears get more wind and less sun than the Trapps, but today is Todd's day to choose, so here we are. There are an awful lot of scary-hard 7s and 8s in the Nears. Maybe we ought to walk over here more often.

We start with Disneyland, a classic and usually over-booked 5.6. I'm pretty sure I've led it before but don't remember. I certainly don't remember doing the "crux mantle move" and am fairly sure I won't be doing it this time. I make my way up the pitch slowly, approaching the move, then do nothing like a mantle, or at least nothing like a mantle that any real climber would admit to doing, more of a squirmy wiggle up onto the finishing ledge. We walk off from Disneyland, triumphant and only a little cold.

Todd wants to do Yellow Belly next, a two-pitch 5.8. The first pitch, rated 5.7, will be mine. It seems ideal, nothing too terrifying for either of us this early in the season. But upon looking at the topo we see that the first pitch goes up the corner to the roof, then detours under the roof around to the left, pulls around that corner, goes up, pulls back around another corner, etc. I can feel the rope drag already. We check the topo in the other guidebook and find something completely different. The other book shows the first pitch pulling the roof directly. It also rates the first pitch at 5.8.

"Look," I say. "I'm just going to pull the roof. It's well protected, one move of 5.8 roof and then it looks like 5.4 climbing to the top." When will I ever learn? We don't rate routes 5.8 because they have one move of 5.8 roof and then 5.4 climbing to the top at the Gunks. Those we rate 5.6.

I dance easily up the opening corner, drifting right onto the face below the roof as the crack in the corner widens into an off-width. I reach the roof feeling smooth and confident with only a couple of pieces beneath me.

Ouch. Damn helmet. I can't get close enough under the roof to place gear. Bang, smash. I'd like to take the friggin thing off. Bump.

"Damn it!"

When I finally manage to get a couple of pieces in, I'm excited about the idea of pulling this roof just so I can get out from under it. I reach over the roof as high as I can and find a bomber finger lock for my left hand. I bounce my feet, can't find a good place for them, finally put my left knee up, not that that helps. The next holds, the horizontal above me, seem just out of reach, but I make a final push and snag the horizontal with my right hand. Uh oh. Not bomber, dude. Not bomber enough that I feel like taking my left hand out of that finger lock, not without any feet anyway.

Scurry back down. Hide under roof. Bang. Damn it! Breathe hard.

"I think a bit of height might help here," I tell Todd, remembering the thing that looked like a jug over my head and off to my right.

I take a second stab, worse than the first. Knee hurts now. I know I'm not supposed to put it up there but my foot just won't go.

Scurry back down. Hide under roof. Smash. Damn. Breathe hard.

"Can you get some gear in over the roof?" Todd asks. Of course, the old gear in over the roof trick. Why didn't I think of that?

"Maybe," I tell him.

For the third time I put my pinky finger into the finger jam that is becoming less and less apprecicated for its bomberness. Where could gear go? Not where that finger jam is but maybe in the horizontal where it curves around to the right. In fact, if I could just grab that jug . . . Somehow it's not as far away as it looked. Jug, mama, jug. I wrench my fingers out of the finger lock, almost believing they aren't going to come out this time, and put my other hand on the horizontal and now I can get my feet over the roof. I'm here!

Smash. Ouch. Bloody helmet. There's another roof over this roof.

I've got just about my whole arm sunk into the horizontal. My head might go in if it weren't for the helmet. My back against the side wall, both feet under me, up to my butt. There isn't enough room in this alcove for me and my helmet and the rock and the rack. The rack. Yes, put a piece in. First piece goes in, hallelujah, just have to clip it. Seriously consider clipping it straight to my belay loop. No, hang a runner. Should clip it long here. Can't do it. Might want to hang right now. Draw then. Consider clipping straight into it again. No, pull up the rope. Won't go in. Slipping down, just friction keeping me up here, had to let go of the jug to place the gear, sliding, I can tell. Clipped. Safe.

Immediately I want to get out of here. A simple escape to my left and I'll be standing, standing like a normal human being stands, just standing. I want it so bad.

I move to the left, just need to grab the edge of this big crack up here and pull myself into it. I don't believe I can do it. I'm exhausted, my hands are numb from fishing around in cold, damp cracks, the pinky won't regain feeling for two weeks, my gear is all the way down there at my feet. I crawl back into the alcove.

"Why did you go back in there?" Todd asks me later.

"I needed to rest," I tell him.

"I didn't find it very restful there," he says.

"Neither did I," I agree, "but it was close to my gear."

Somehow I manage to warm my hands up and sally forth from the alcove once more. This time, all goes well and before too much longer I'm slumping down on the belay ledge, wishing I could just lay here but knowing that I have to set an anchor, pull up the rope, put Todd on belay.

I'm flattered when Todd pokes his head over the roof and retreats back down before pulling it, then know he's in the alcove when I hear him laughing to himself. He makes quick work of the rest and now it's his turn.

From the belay we can see that someone has bailed from the tree (twig!) above us. Hmmm. Must get hard up there or something. With a few false starts, Todd gets up into the crux of the second pitch, stuck in an alcove below a roof, where else?

"I think you want to go left," I tell him.

"Yeah, I think so too," he says with deep regret.

I don't know what to tell him except that from down here it looks pretty easy. When he commits to the moves he makes it look easy too.

My hands have gone numb from the cold while belaying, I'm glad to be climbing again. At least I'm glad until I crawl into that alcove.

Smash. Damn. This route ought to come with a no-helmet warning. It's cozy in Todd's alcove, a lot more comfortable than mine was. I could stay here all day. I ponder the possibility that I will stay here all day since it's totally unclear how I'm going to leave here. Have to turn around the other way (bang). Okay. Nasty little horizontal, no feet. This is one of those stinking fingertip traverses is what this is. I decide that I'm going to use the one foothold the wall offers, way up and off to the side. I undercling the horizontal, yanking myself up and over onto that foot.

There, sitting on my foot. Just like the pros do it. Only now I have to somehow leave this position. I grope blindly with my left hand, must be something around this corner to hold onto, and finally wiggle and jiggle my weight off that foot so I can actually move again.

The rest was easy, by the way.

3/17/02

For my second attempt at leading Ant's Line (5.9), I did have a certain strategy as follows: Climb easily up to the crux, place two pieces, downclimb to the rest, pull the crux, and finish quickly on the easy ground above.

It's always good to have a plan.

Step one. Climb easily up to the crux.

Is it just me or is this move hard? I don't even have gear in yet. Has there always been a hard move here? Has anyone besides me noticed that I've hardly even left the ground?

Todd suggests that if I'd climb the crack directly instead of trying to step in off the ledge I could have gear. Despite the fact that climbing the crack directly is rather obviously harder, thank you very much, he has a point. I get some gear in and climb through to the corner that marks the start of the route proper.

Step two. Place two pieces.

Ack! This is a godawful stance and I'm going to fall off before I even get so much as one piece in. What was I thinking, climbing up here with nothing but that tiny nut below me? Sure, it was a great tiny nut, but still. I'm going to die and I'm not even going to do it on the crux.

I scurry back down to the tiny nut and augment it with a bigger nut, higher up. Then I lean my forehead against the rock and breathe deeply. Maybe I don't want to lead this route after all.

Step two, take two.

This time I come prepared. I hang the piece I'm pretty sure goes in under the roof on the front gear loop. Fortified by a brief rest and my second placement, I charge back up to the crux. I fire in the piece I'd selected. Sucess! Probably the first instance of my ever remembering what the crux gear is. But then, the last time I tried to lead this route it took about five minutes hanging out in this miserable stance to get something in. I'm not likely to forget that.

And the second piece? Yeah right. I'm going to hang out here long enough to figure out where I can place a second piece. This one caught me last time. It's going to have to do.

Step three. Downclimb to the rest.

Been there. Done that. Twice.

Step four. Pull the crux.

This part goes surprisingly well. I guess all that work on overhanging stuff in the gym has finally paid off. The holds feel bigger and more postive, the feet more plentiful and useful, than the last time I tried to lead this route. I love it when a plan comes together!

Step five. Finish quickly on the easy ground above.

Um. It used to be easy up here. I swear it did. Through the crux and wanting a real rest, I find only a poorish stance and poorish gear. I place the gear, a bomber nut behind a pitiful flake, and climb on in search of the Stance That Is To Come. I never find it. Eventually I look up and realize that the top is tantalizingly close and there are jugs all the way. I abandon my attempts to fiddle in another half-assed piece of gear and aim for the end. Victory is mine.

3/24/02 - 3/30/02

Todd and I were at Cayman Brac. Read the trip report: All Overhanging, All the Time