The crux was an offwidth crack streaming with water. My offwidth experience to that point consisted of, well, nothing. I foolishly managed to squeeze myself into the crack backwards (mistake #1) and get my foot between the rock and the sling from my last piece (mistake #2). I fell. And got flipped. I fall much too often on lead but all my falls to that point had been pretty undramatic. Sliding head first down the rock is dramatic. And disconcerting. Disconcerting enough that when I climbed back up to my high point I couldn't bring myself to commit to the move again. I tried an alternative layback move but was too intimidated by the water to do that either and finally bailed off onto the route to the right, a 5.9, but dry. 

Driving home that night I realized that it was the first time I had bailed off a lead and I was disappointed in myself. I felt like I hadn't really made a sincere attempt to finish the route after my fall, that I had allowed fear to win. The next day, back at the Gunks with Todd again, I wanted to take another stab at it, to redeem myself somehow, but Todd had other plans. So I found myself at the bottom of the first pitch of Modern Times. Modern Times is 5.8 and very intimidating but the first pitch is only 5.7 and my kind of climbing. The route was wet in patches but I was mostly able to avoid it and to climb through what couldn't be avoided and I was thoroughly enjoying myself. Until I came to this roof. Now in case you know Modern Times, let me add that I'm not talking about the roof. I'm talking about a dinky little, two-moves-and-you're-over-it roof just below the first belay. I couldn't do it. I climbed up and down a half dozen times and I couldn't see the move. Finally I decided I had to jump for the next hold. So I did. 

I had two pieces at my waist but I fell a long ways, longer than I'd ever fallen before. It was just slack plus lots of rope stretch, but when I stopped it looked like I'd fallen nearly 20 feet and my ankle hurt. Hanging from the rope there I experienced the strongest moment of frustration and heartache that I'd ever had climbing. I wanted to hang there and cry, but that was wrong so I climbed back up to the rooflette instead. Once there, however, I just knew I couldn't bring myself to risk that fall again. 

And so, for the second time in two days, I bailed. I moved right to where the ground was easier but running with water and covered in moss, mud, and lichen. I had to excavate each hold before I could use it. There was no way to get good pro into such chossy rock. I was looking at a big pendulum if I fell and I couldn't trust my feet to stick to even the biggest holds. By the time I climbed the eight feet to the belay ledge I was shaking all over and when Todd joined me there (having easily pulled the roof), I burst into tears. I felt, I guess, like a failure. Poor Todd. He was great about it though. He let me cry and then led the rest of the route, giving me beta for every move and babying me the whole way. He even told me that I was tough and not a weenie. But I felt like a weenie all the same. 

The next weekend, only a couple of days before my trip to Red Rocks, my ankle felt good enough to climb on, so I met Steven at the Gunks for what was supposed to be a glorious day - 40 to 60 degrees, sunny and clear. Wrong. The fog hung so low it coated the rock in a layer of water, rather as though it had just been painted. Steven brought me over to Sixish, offered me the lead and I . . . said no. A first. I had a healthier respect for wet rock by then and my psyche and body were both feeling too battered to withstand another failure on lead. Steven started up the direct start and quickly discovered it to be much more difficult than the 5.6 it was supposed to be. As he hemmed and hawed over a move that looked impossible under the conditions I realized two things: one, I had made the right decision when I said no to the lead, and, two, if I'd been in Steven's position I'd have tried the move and taken the fall. 

Steven came down. I didn't know what that said about me. I didn't know when I was being stubborn, not brave, or wimpy, not smart. I didn't know how I was supposed to tell the difference. I didn't know what my limits were or how to find them without either frustrating my partners or killing myself. 

It was with all that in the background that I set off to meet Geoff for our wall attempt. I was scared, but I thought I was committed. I thought stubbornness at least would see me through. I had been told repeatedly that this project was over-ambitious but I'd been told that before, at every step of my climbing career. Where's the line between pushing yourself and fooling yourself? Is it wrong to try to find it? 

It went very badly. We didn't even make it to the foot of the route. There are lots of good reasons - water again, everywhere, on the approach and on the route; packs that were too heavy and fit badly; time wasted getting lost and hauling the packs through sections that were too steep to climb with them on. In the end though, almost 24 hours after starting the approach, we turned around without finishing it because I bailed. I had found my limit. I was too scared, too overwhelmed, too beaten. I couldn't handle three more days of pain and fear. 

Geoff was great about it. I'm sure a lot of people wouldn't have been. He was obviously disappointed, but he didn't try to bully me into continuing. He said it was my decision to make and he stood by me when I made it. I was hugely relieved to head back down, but there was no question that we had wasted two full days. 

Should I have stuck with it? I was disappointed in myself, again, for not being as tough as I once imagined myself to be and for letting Geoff down. Should I have bailed earlier? I was guiltily aware that I had been scared enough to dream of bailing since before we had even started. For me, the time spent was not entirely wasted. I learned some things - like what navigating rough terrain with a heavy pack feels like and what level of commitment I can stand (not four days, maybe two). Hell, I learned what commitment meant. I don't think I really knew. For Geoff though the time was nothing but wasted and I might have spared him that by being more honest with him, and myself, earlier. 

We still had three days in Vegas though - time to do some climbing. And so we set off the next morning to do Cat in the Hat, a much recommended five pitch 5.6. We were pleasantly surprised to find ourselves first in line for the route and I led the first pitch, enjoying the comfortable ground, glad to be climbing again and to not be scared. Geoff led the second pitch. By now we had people behind us but we weren't holding them up. I started leading the third pitch. It seemed to match the topo at first and then less so as I found myself seriously runout on ground that felt harder than 5.6 and with no sign of the promised belay slings. I could see some fixed gear up ahead and I kept moving towards it. When I clipped it I was about 25 feet above my last piece, the ground ahead looked even harder and more runout, and there was still no sign of any slings. 

Thankfully, Geoff and I had the little radios we'd brought for the wall. We talked about the situation and I down climbed back to the last place I'd felt like I was on-route, clipped into the fixed gear above me for protection. By that point we had become a bottleneck. The leader from the next party was with Geoff at the second belay and there were two more leaders at the first belay. 

I was miserable. I felt like the biggest screw-up in the history of climbing. I couldn't even lead a pitch of 5.6 on a trade route without bailing off it and bringing misery into the lives of 7 other people. Geoff and Daryl (the leader below us) scrambled around trying to figure out where I should be going, trying to decide whether I needed to go up or down and, if down, how I was going to rescue our gear now that I'd pulled the rope from above me. Meanwhile I wallowed alone on my little ledge, thinking how irritated with me everyone must be. 

Eventually the situation became more clear. Here are the clues: the word NO written in chalk below the face I had climbed, the fact that the fixed gear I'd clipped had consisted of two pieces, both with biners attached, and, finally, one of the parties at the first belay leading off in an entirely different direction. Yes, we were more than a whole pitch off-route. The slings we'd found for our second belay were possibly bail slings and the fixed gear I'd clipped was almost certainly bail gear (and very bad ju-ju to anyone who ever cleans it). 

Things lightened up from there. At least I felt like less of a loser since I wasn't the first person to end up stuck on this ledge, and thanks to all the previous bailees we were able to get back to the first belay without leaving any gear. The couple below us turned out to be good sports and a lot of fun. We teamed up to climb the next two (real) pitches together and then bailed together when darkness threatened. 
 

I called this TR "What I Learned By Bailing" but I don't know what I learned. It's a mixed bag. I know I should have tried harder on Airy Area. I know that bailing off Cat in the Hat due to darkness was the right decision - the parties above us didn't get back till well after dark. I know now that I was right to bail off the fixed gear when I was off-route, but I didn't know it at the time. About the approach/wall I have no idea whether I should have bailed earlier, then, or not at all. I wonder if bailing gets easier the more you do it, if I've started down some slippery slope of fearfulness which will only get steeper and slipperier as I go. 

I'm looking for a rule of thumb, some way to live with myself and still live, some way of knowing when I'm being sensible about my abilities and when I'm going to feel disgusted with myself for quitting. I suppose there aren't any easy answers, that it's just something you figure out as you go, another part of the challenge of climbing. 

I know I don't want to let myself down or my partners down. I know I have a fear of failure and that it's as serious as a fear of falling and potentially more dangerous. I know I want to be better than I am and that I want that now and that I'm being unrealistic. That's what I know, what I'm coming to terms with. 

And I know I'm grateful to everyone who is suffering through my learning curve with me, and everyone who cautions me not to overstep myself, and everyone who believes in me and pushes me to do more. And I am amazed that these are the same people. I've said it before, but it bears repeating because it's the one truth that is most clear in all of this: I have the best partners in the world.