4/6/02

Today something wonderful happened, something scary and mysterious but, in the end, wonderful.

It was one of those days when no one seemed to have a plan, so after Todd led Columbia, not for any reason in particular, we happened to walk past Hyjek's Horror (8- PG) and Steven suggested it for me.

The problem with Hyjek's Horror is that all the hard moves come before any of the gear. Some slabby little start off small holds leads eventually, perhaps as little as 15 feet off the ground, to easier climbing. I don't know that the route has anything to recommend it. About the best I can say is that for a route calling itself Hyjek's Horror you get what was advertised.

The something wonderful that happened didn't start out that way. It started with me clinging to a couple of small holds about 10 feet up the wall wishing I could find something that would work to further my progress other than a balancy high-step. But ain't that just slab climbing for you?

Eventually I made the move, using my patented "one small step for Dawn" method, where I transfer my weight to the new foot but only barely lift the toe of the old foot, leaving it poised for a quick retreat. Since I didn't start sliding down the rock immediately I lifted the old foot, I went ahead and stood up on the new foot, which happened in this case to be my left foot, my right hand on its miniscule edge meanwhile rotating into a sort of mantle.

At first I felt that I had made it, my left hand finding the next hold, a sort of a sidepull thing to further my standing up, and then the something scary happened. My left hand lost its grip and I started to fall off, backwards worse yet because I had been pulling against that left hand so.

I had time to think about Todd beneath me and the rocky landing beneath us both. I wondered if he could spot me or if we'd both tumble down the slope behind him, wondered if his standing there so close between me and the particularly large rock had been such a good idea.

And that's when the something mysterious happened, which was simply this: I didn't fall. One moment I was falling, hand away from the wall, center of gravity swinging dangerously, the next moment my body was still and my hand was back on. I finished standing up, said "that was really close" which Steven denied, shook for a minute or two, and finally put some gear in.

The something wonderful took a while to develop. For one thing, I had to finish leading the route, and then Steven kept insisting that I hadn't fallen off at all, which was just making the waters muddier. It wasn't until Todd and I were alone together and I was going through the post-mortem One More Time when the truth came out.

"I saw your hand come off," he said, like I hadn't been trying to get somebody to admit that I'd nearly fallen off that route for the last 6 hours. "The worst part is, I thought you were going to come off backwards."

"I was going to come off backwards," I shrieked in triumph, overjoyed, like my first ascent of Everest had finally been recognized after all these hundreds of years. "But why didn't I?"

And then I was struck by the obvious. Todd had pushed me back on.

"Did you push me?" I asked. I would have been grateful if he had - the situation was far too serious to worry about ethics - but he denied it.

"You were too high to reach."

And so the mystery remained a mystery and so I continued pondering it. I played the tape in my head; I tried to feel it again. I couldn't feel a push in my back. What I could feel was . . .

Could it be? Could it be that my right hand, that poor forgotten fellow left fingering a tiny crimp at waist level as I moved up, had pulled me back on? Could be it be that I had saved myself?

I tried out the suggestion on Todd.

"Must be," he said. He didn't sound like it mattered much, because for him it's always been that way. He has always hung on, fought through, not fallen off when the falling got ugly. But for me! What a novel idea, what a first, what a marvelous thought to contemplate. I had hung on! Even as I wondered whether or not Todd's spotting could save me, I had saved myself.

And that's the something wonderful that happened that day. For the first time ever, I saved myself.

5/5/02

It's a nice day and the three of us, Todd, Andrei, and I, are walking along trying to decide what to do. Andrei doesn't want to do anything pumpy, which doesn't exactly explain what happens next, except that it's sort of my day to choose and what I want to do is lead MF.

MF has been on my to-do list, though not in any immediate way, since my first lap on it 2 1/2 years ago when Steven led it on a misty but warm day in January. From the trip report I wrote about that day:

The move around the corner was terrifying, even on TR. It was burly, blind, and exposed. I pulled through it and moved up to the second crux, where I fell while trying to substitute brute strength for footwork, and then I finished the route. What a great route that is. I'm going to be pretty proud of myself the day I lead that one.

Me giving up on soloing the start of MF, 5.9

Burly, blind, and exposed. That pretty well sums up MF even all these climbing miles later. I have a goal this season of leading the following routes: Ant's Line, Roseland, Directissima, Jean, and, of course, MF. In short, all the reasonably well-protected 9s I've already been on. So far I've done Ant's Line.

But I learned something leading Ant's Line that's going to stand me in good stead. What I learned is that, when you're leading, the crux isn't always the crux. Sometimes when you're leading the crux is getting up to the crux, and often the crux is just making yourself leave the ground in the first place.

That's why I'm leading MF today, even though Andrei specifically said he didn't want to do anything pumpy: because I told myself I would and because it would be too easy to tell myself I don't have to.

I'm slow like molasses leading up to the crux, particularly trying to force myself to solo the start, which Todd always does. Really, it's just faster if I put in gear, which I eventually do. Some guy walks by and says, "This is what's so great about climbing today - more women. And more women leaders!" which thoroughly embarrasses me because I'm on the verge of wigging out.

Eventually I get to the crux and get the pin clipped and grab the jug and try to haul myself around the blind corner, but I can't seem to find a thing over there to haul myself with, so I downclimb back to the pin and hang, arms crossed, sulking.

Me sulking while I hang on MF, 5.9

Todd offers up beta: get your right foot more right, get your left hand more right, in short get your whole body more right. Eventually I decide it's about time to start climbing again, so I put my hands and feet on the rock and start to pull back in, but I can't go anywhere. Todd has me so tight I can't move.

"You're pulling on me!" I scream at him. The situation doesn't change, so I slump back down on the rope. At that very moment he gives me slack after all. "Now you're dropping me!" I screech.

The crowd goes wild. I have the idea that they're laughing at his inept belaying, but his idea is that they're laughing at me: Give me slack, damn you! Shit, you're giving me slack! He's probably right.

"You're supposed to say climbing," he says by way of explanation. I think he's supposed to be watching me in my monumental struggle against the great 5.9 and shouldn't need to be told that I'm climbing.

Realistically I never watch him when he's hanging either, but to be further realistic, he never says climbing. At least, he rarely says climbing and then actually climbs, so who listens to him? I puzzle the situation out while I continue swinging gently on the rope, a little lower this time after the slack incident, and eventually figure out that this situation is different because I'm hanging in space and need slack just to get back on, whereas normally the process of getting back on creates slack, alerting the belayer that something is about to happen.

"Climbing!" I say emphatically. I try the sequence again, this time getting my right foot more right, my left hand more right, etc. I can feel the rounded, pebbly edge that I'm supposed to use to pull myself the rest of the way around the arete but I don't have enough strength left to do it.

Me trying to pull the crux on MF, 5.9

Naw. It's probably more true to say that I don't have enough courage left to do it. If I could believe that I could do it, I could probably do it, but since I can't, I can't. I have further to downclimb, which makes it a lot harder, so eventually I slip and swing. Wheee! If only all falls were this clean, falling wouldn't be scary.

Hanging even lower this time, I go back to swinging and sulking. It seems I'm getting farther away with each attempt.

"I'm so thirsty," I moan.

"If you backup the pin, you can come down and get something to drink and then either you can go back up or I'll do it," Todd answers.

Around the arete but not quite done on MF, 5.9

I'm insulted. I only mentioned being thirsty because it was the God's honest truth, not to use it as an excuse to bail. Have I been so long leading this route that my time is up already?

"Let me try once more anyway," I say. I get back on again, get my right foot even further right and my left hand even further right and fondle that bumpy undercling and slowly, very slowly, start to pull myself around the arete until I'm standing, barely breathing, on my right foot.

Now for the hard part. Luckily I knew I'd feel panicked here, so I don't actually feel so panicked. As badly balanced as I am, I have to clip the pin to my right. This is a rule. We don't know why it's a rule, why one should not simply step up a few moves to a good stance before trying to place gear, but there you go. A rule's a rule. Everyone stands in this same spot, delicately trying to pull the rope across their body without dislodging their body from the wall. I'm no exception.

Once I've got the pin clipped, I'm hugely relieved. To me, the challenges of the route are over, even though Todd is more worried about the upper crux than the lower one. The reason I'm not so worried about the upper crux is because it's kind of slabby and I know I can step up and down as many times as I need to. The reason Todd's worried about the upper crux is because it's kind of slabby and he thinks I'm going to deck or something if I come off. I have to explain to him that it's no more slabby than the 7s and 8s I normally lead. That's the kind of fall we moderate leaders are always looking at.

Later that same day

"Two pink, two red, one brown, one purple," I insist to Lisa. "All sane Gunks climbers carry two pink, two red, one brown, one purple." And then I tell her the story of Calisthenics.

"This is Calisthenics," Andrei says. "5.7"

"Five seven!" I squeak. I've actually seen this route before but don't believe in the so-called 5.7 start any more this time than I did the last time. The route starts with a dyno from the ground, about a foot for me, to a rail, then your feet must be heaved up to about waist level for a long move to a jug. Then it's pretty much over.

"It's a clean landing," he points out.

Andrei and I throw our packs down and try the start. He goes through the first two moves casually. I surprise myself by hitting the rail on my first try.

"It's a little run out after the start," Andrei warns me, "but it's like 5.6." Run out 5.6 slabby face moves don't scare me. After all, I've led City Lights ever so many times. So what the hell. I'm wicked strong these days. 5.7 though it may not be, still I'll give it a shot. I take Andrei's rack, array myself with runners, tie in, lace up, make sure Andrei has given me plenty of slack, position myself beneath the dyno, and jump.

Oops. This is the ground. Jump again. This is my butt on the ground. Hmmm. Why was this so easy before and so hard now? Oh yeah, it's because I'm wearing about 20 pounds of gear.. I keep missing the rail, or just snagging it with my fingertips, and toppling back over. This is getting silly now.

Finally Andrei gives me a boost.

OK, then. All difficulties behind me I begin the process of wandering around the face above looking for the line of least resistance offering the best chance of gear. I do very badly. After clawing my way through mud and a series grass hummocks, I gain a big ledge whereupon I traverse far to my left to sling an enormous tree. This tree gives me immense satisfaction as a truly bomber piece of gear. It's to be the last one.

No matter which way I go, tempted by the lure of gear, I am disappointed. When the chance of gear does arrive, it is very poor. At my first opportunity after the excellent tree I'm stumped by not seeming to have the piece I need. I have a cam that's too big and a cam that's too small. But I haven't placed any gear yet, right? Leading on an unfamiliar rack can be so exasperating. I cram in a too big cam and carefully balance a too small tri-cam and trudge onward.

While the moves aren't hard, the lichen coated slab is unpleasantly slick. Twice I have a foot skate off beneath me. City Lights is a bit run out, yes. It may be 20 feet between pieces and not every piece is as bomber as you might hope it would be. But I've never soloed 100 feet of climbing before.

In time the lichen-y slab tapers off into the other kind of Gunks rock, the pretty orange, sharp chunky stuff. Although it's a bit too broken up here to feel really good about any piece I place, I at least feel good about having positive holds to grab onto and clean rock under my feet. Towards the end of the pitch is a nice corner, attractive from the ground but only about 20 feet long in reality. At the top of the corner I place my second great piece. I'm 3 feet from the belay.

"Todd's here," Andrei yells up. "We're going to do the second pitch."

I pull up the slack for Andrei and put him on belay. I'm looking up at the second pitch with its classic Gunks roof and I'm thinking about not being able to find the cam I wanted early on the first pitch and I'm also wondering what I did with the purple tri-cam. I remember placing the brown one. Did I drop the purple one while I was fiddling with the brown one? That's a move I've pulled before.

"Todd?" I yell down.

"Yeah?"

"Bring up the Camalot Juniors with you."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm already off the ground and I don't think I can reverse those moves."

Really! The number of times I've told him not to leave the ground before he's on belay !

"How many times have I told you not to leave the ground until you're on belay?" I yell down. His answer is unintelligible, which is probably just as well under the circumstance. Fine then, let him lead the second pitch.

"Now Andrei," I ask as Todd racks up. There's this cam and then there's this cam. But what goes in between them?"

"That's the one I don't carry because the trigger wires are broken."

I see.

"Well, where's the purple tri-cam then? Did I drop it? I know I placed the brown one . . . "

"I don't carry the purple."

I see.

From the belay we can tell that there's water running down the side of the second pitch crux, but it's clearly running down the side of the crux, not the actual crux itself, so Todd marches himself up there. He moans the whole way. Loose blocks this, and mud that, and blah blah blah. He should try 100 feet of dirty slab where the only pieces you can place are the ones your partner doesn't carry.

When he gets to the crux he says something about having a good piece of gear at last, which is all very nice for him, having a good piece at the actual crux. He pulls through the corner/roof system with the water running to his left. He needs only stand up above the roof and he's done.

"Water," he gasps..

Well, yes, we could see that.

"Like a lake," he insists.

He's right. The entire ledge is on a flood watch. How it doesn't all run over the lip, I can't quite figure. Even the cam he placed in a crack above the ledge is swimming in a half inch of water.

"It was either that or put it behind a loose block," he says later. "The only decent piece I had on the whole pitch was the one below the crux. I sure could have used those Camalot Juniors." Which only serves him right.

"That route had nothing to recommend it," he declares emphatically. "Nothing."

"The start is interesting," I argue, feeling defensive even though we only picked the route because nothing else was open. "And those crux moves on the second pitch would be nice if they were dry."

"Nothing!"

And so we learned two important lessons that day: "don't recommend Calisthenics to anyone" and "all sane Gunks climbers carry two pink, two red, one brown, and one purple." And a set of Camlot Juniors, of course.

5/25/02

Steven aiding over the roof on Criss Cross Direct - the only way to go if you ask me.

I literally hate this route. It brings nothing but failure and disappointment to all who climb it. And what's worse is that it's getting worse. Let me tell you about my enemy: Criss Cross Direct.

It all started because of a friendly wager as to whether or not Steven could lead a 5.10 cleanly before the end of the season. I don't know why Steven picked Criss Cross Direct particularly except that it starts with a crack and he's always trying to prove that there's jamming at the Gunks.

To make a long story short, Steven didn't get it cleanly and neither did I following him, but on my second attempt I discovered the "trick" to pulling through the crux. After that I dismissed the route as easy, I think Steven even did it a second time on TR to try out my trick, and we both walked away feeling certain that we'd never have any trouble with that route again.

I did it with Todd shortly thereafter and my confidence by then was palpable. I quote from the TR I wrote about that weekend:

"I figured I could probably do the route cleanly - once you have it wired it's maybe 5.9 - and I did. Todd thought I should lead it next but I thought that would just be a gimmick. I wasn't ready to lead 10s, even if I could do this one, so why bother?"

Ahem.

So now all three of us were set with the route. Todd onsight flashed it so smoothly that he couldn't even pinpoint where the crux was. Steven will lead it cleanly on the next try, thus winning his wager with something like 6 months of season left to go, and I'll probably make Criss Cross Direct my first 5.10 lead, perhaps before I even get around to my first 5.9 lead.

Ahem.

It's not like I remember every time I've been on Criss Cross Direct individually. It's more of a general pattern, a descent, a disintegration. Steven did not lead it cleanly on his next attempt, nor his next, nor, I'm pretty sure, even his next. In fact, in the end he won his wager with a different route altogether. As stressful as it got to be to belay with my fingers crossed, what was harder for me to bear was that I was no longer following the route cleanly either.

At first it was just a foot-slipping sort of thing, a moment of carelessness, I-could-have-done-it-if, but eventually I had to admit the truth. This route was better than I was. It wasn't just the crux that was getting me either. There was something below the crux, that dark ugly crack in the corner, that had it in for me as well.

It got worse for Todd too.

"That was kind of hard," he would say, puzzled, after his attempt and before mine which would end with a temper tantrum. He would run laps. I would refuse to climb the route at all if I fell off even once. Different strategies with the same result. "I think this route is getting harder."

A couple of Saturdays ago, after what had been a good day so far, Todd says he wants to lead Criss Cross Direct.

"But why?" I whine. "I hate that route." I hate worrying about falling off of it, I hate falling off of it, and most of all I hate the fit I throw after I've fallen off of it.

Somehow we go do it any way and, get this, Todd ends up hanging on it. Then I fall repeatedly, and I do mean repeatedly, trying to follow it, in brand new places even, and then Todd decides to run up it on TR and he still can't get it clean. And so I ask you, what the hell is up with that route?

Never again. Never, never again. Todd thinks we should keep fighting till we conquor it but I say it's time to admit defeat. If we had any sense we'd have quit two years ago while we were still ahead.