11/5/01

We wander away from the Seasons to check out a 5.11G that Todd has imagined is down there somewhere and run into a fascinating looking short corner/crack capped by a small roof crowned by a long, steep vertical crack. What's this?

Todd checks the book. This is Blistered Toe (5.8G) and I'm standing under the direct start, rated 5.9+. I think it's swell-looking.

"Do you want to do it?" Todd asks me.

"You mean me lead it?" I ask nervously.

"No."

But I do want to lead it. I know that 5.9+ is a little stiff for me but all the difficulties are obvious from the ground and well-protected. Then the higher stuff will only be 5.8 and not that 5.8-ish crap that people who can lead 5.10 assign to anything that's not the crux but honest-to-goodness says-it-right-there-in-the-guidebook 5.8.

"I can lead this," I say. We rack up.

A couple appears from around the corner. "Up or down?" the guy asks us. "Up," we tell him. "Too bad," he tells the woman he's with. "You'd like this route. It's a lot nicer than it looks."

Nicer than it looks! How could that be?

I step up to the start. Hmmmm. How exactly does one leave the ground on this route?

Another pair appears from the other direction. "What's this?" they ask. They stay to watch. This is getting frustrating. Somehow, because I've never climbed in this section of the Gunks before, I had this little idea that I'd discovered this stunning line. Now I've got four people watching me and I've just realized that I can't even make the first move.

"Do you want to put a piece in from the ground?" Todd asks me.

Why, yes. Yes, I do. Standing on my tippy-toes I manage to fiddle in a nut, not easily since it's at the very end of my reach. Todd offers to do it for me, but no, that would be cheating. I place the nut myself, not wholly satisfied with it but aware that I'll only need to make a move or two before I can get another piece in.

I take a deep breath, try to block the crowd of spectators out of my mind, and step up off the ground. This is brutal. I get my fingers in next to the nut and make two powerful moves to get my hands on top of a horizontal. Gear. Shit. There are no feet under me. How am I supposed to put gear in here.

I try to wedge a hip into the corner under the roof and get just enough relief from it to fiddle a cam into the pocket that's so obvious from the ground. It's a really round pocket and I'm not happy with the way some of the cams tip out. I reverse the cam and am no happier. I'm hanging on here forever.

Suddenly I hear a voice below me. "I've got you spotted. Don't worry. We've got you." Now I'm glad I have an audience. I relax a little and clip the cam, still not totally satisfied but convinced that I can't get a better placement there. A cheer goes up. I get one foot level with the roof and start to move up. One or two more moves and I'll be done. The crowd exhorts me on.

I can't do this.

I'm at the spot where I thought I'd be done but I've run out of holds. I downclimb back to my last piece and hang on it, carefully. The helpful guy tells me where I can get another piece in and I pump myself out doing it, then place a third while I'm hanging.

I now believe that I probably have good enough gear to fall on. Probably. That's the rub. Each time as I pull myself back up to my high point I can feel the moment when Todd lets slack out for my next move up and I panic. I need to let go with my right hand and I can't. I try every which way. The rock below the roof is some of the smoothest I've ever slid off. My feet paddle against it like I'm wearing bunny slippers instead of sticky rubber.

Finally I admit that I can't do it and lower off. So why am I going back up? I don't know. I'm just that stubborn. I should be able to lead this route. I can climb 5.10 and the gear is right there. Only I can't even get back up there. The first move off the ground stumps me. The next few moves are too hard and I hang after each one. By the time I'm finally at the level of my top piece again I understand, for real this time, that I can't do it and lower off again.

Todd takes over. He moves quickly to my top pieces, gives them the once over, and then goes left! Left!? What the hell is that?

When it's my turn to follow, I go left too. I pull over the roof and stop. "That's just so wrong," I say. He lowers me back down and I try again to pull straight over the roof. Eventually I get it, but not without a lot of falling. OK, so I couldn't lead this route.

The top of the route is nice. This, I could have led.

12/16/01

I really didn't want to be here, stuck like every other newbie 5.6 leader at the beginning of the wide stuff on Baby. Todd said I should go back to the car for the #4, but I was too cool. After all, I've led Baby before, which I don't even remember it was so easy. According to Steven's recounting of the tale, I slung the chock stone, didn't bother to back it up, and face climbed around the offwidth section.

The chock stone is long since gone, but it's the part about backing it up that led me to believe I could do this without the #4. I certainly wasn't carrying a #4 that day. Steven must have thought I had another option available to me.

Now, standing here stuck like . . . well, I already said that part . . . I don't see another option. With a #3 in at my feet, as high as it will go, I have all the gear I'm going to get. And I'd like to know how I ever face climbed around this section. I can see chalk on the flake to the right but I can't see how climbing the flake would be anything like 5.6.

It's only later that it occurs to me that a chock stone is more than just gear. It's an extra hold as well.

That stupid #3 is so in my way and it's not even a great piece. Every time I put my foot in the crack in the hopes of actually starting the next move, it slides down until it's resting on the cam. This is unsatisfactory. Cheating issues aside, I don't want to lose my one foot hold and my one piece of protection at the same time.

"I can tell you how I do it," Todd offers, "but maybe you don't want to know."

"I know how you do it," I tell him. He laybacks the whole section. I fondle the edge. "It's a good edge for laybacking," I admit, "but I really can't see myself laybacking that far." What is it? 6 feet? 10 feet from the gear before you're done? I'm actually pretty good at laybacking. At least, it's not one of the things I know I need to work on, like dynos and slopers, but I'm not keen on laybacking on lead. My confidence doesn't run that high. No, it's either offwidth the crack or face climb the flake.

I paw around the inside the offwidth a bit, looking for something better than a full-on arm bar, and find only the smallest of sidepull edges. Unsatisfactory. I finger the face holds to my right again. Unsatisfactory. I try once more to put my foot in the crack. This is ridiculous. I'm coming down.

Much whimpering and clinging later I'm finally below the #3 and ready to remove it. Funny how easy the stuff above me looks from here. Why you simply stand up there and . . .

I climb back up and resolutely stuff my foot in the crack - below the cam this time. It sticks. I throw my right arm in the offwidth and re-find that microedge and step up. Yes, I'm up. That was a mistake. I really don't know if I can get back down now. I shuffle the other arm up, find a much better sidepull in the depths of the crack, and stick my whole other leg in. Squeak, squeeze, scrunch. Up I go, more committed with every inch.

I can almost get my foot on the slopey edge that marks the finishing point for this section. Briefly I high step to it, then change my mind. If I'm going to fall, I really don't want to fall upside down. Instead, I squeegee up a little higher and then step on it.

For a moment, I think I've had it. I need to pull just slightly higher to reach a real hand hold, but I can't get there. I'm teetering, groping blindly inside the crack, looking for anything. Finally I find the smallest opening in the cap above me and the last six inches are mine.

With great relief, I cling to the holds above the offwidth and strew gear about madly.

"That didn't look so bad," Todd says.

Next time I'm bringing the #4.

We're at the Gunks today practicing. Maybe cheating's a better word. Next week at GunksFest 2001 we'll be climbing in this area, from Baby to Jean. I've just led Baby. Now Todd leads Jean (5.9). We learn that the old blue thing that used to mark the start of the crux has been replaced with a new red thing. I learn that just because I made it over the roof the last time we did this route doesn't mean I'm just going to sail over it like nothing today. Despite the fact that I know where the good holds are now (yes, I swear there are some), I still have trouble getting my feet over the roof.

At one point, I find a knee bar. Oh blessed, blessed knee bar. On a subsequent attempt the knee bar is gone. Why hast thou forsaken me? Eventually I go over the roof three times, never the same way twice. You know, if I could find that knee bar again I really think I could lead this route.

We finish the day with Maria Direct (5.9) and Maria Redirect (5.11). I actually get through the lower crux on Maria Redirect without falling, reaching what Todd calls "the rest." I fall off of the rest. Perhaps he meant "the rest of the route." Eventually I get started on the second half of the route and manage to get to the top in one push. So, I can do the lower crux and the upper crux; I just can't do "the rest."

"If I can do Maria Redirect at the GunksFest," I tell Steven by email, "pretend that I've always been able to do it."

It's going to be the best GunksFest ever!

12/26/2001

Read trip reports and see pictures from GunksFest 2001