There were three things I was repeatedly warned about prior to my first trip to Seneca:  the sandbagged ratings, the lousy food, and the lack of anything to do there when it rains. 

I climb at the Gunks, so how bad could Seneca ratings be?  Except that these warnings were coming from other Gunks climbers.  OK, maybe a little scary. 

Food-wise: red meat, grease, sugar and salt all get gold stars in my book.  You can't scare me with home-cooked-meal type diners and pizza has to go a long ways to actually be bad.  Besides, there's always McDonald's, right?  The subsequent snickers were slightly disconcerting. 

And as for rainy-day entertainment, well, the forecast was very encouraging.  Never mind that bit about the weather changing every 15 minutes.  I was sure it would be glorious.  Anyway, every trip is an adventure and for each negative comment about the food, the ratings or the entertainment, I got one positive comment about the summit, so I set off to pick up Todd Wednesday night feeling optimistic and excited.

We got in late, slept little, and stumbled out of the tent on Thursday morning to face my first Seneca challenge - breakfast.  A cozy little place called Valley View served up a perfectly reasonable rendition of eggs with sausage, good greasy home fries, and thickly buttered toast.  I added on the biscuits in gravy.  Hey, when in Rome.  A bit much for breakfast but not bad at all.  With this hurdle cheerfully overcome, I turned my thoughts to the sandbagged ratings.

By the time we were at the foot of Ecstasy (5.7), I had worked myself into a pretty good state.  We stopped at the bottom of a short, steep crack leading up onto an arete.  It looked a little hard for 5.7.  My nerves cranked up a notch.

"I usually just solo up to that first ledge," Todd said, pointing up about 25 feet.  Oh, great.  This wasn't the 5.7; this was the approach to the 5.7.  Well, no, thank God it wasn't.  This was a sort of boulder start to the approach to the 5.7.  The approach was on the arete, much less intimidating but still too much for me to solo comfortably with my nerves already so revved up.  We started from the ground.  Although Todd still didn't place any gear until after the ledge, I at least got my top-rope.

Todd led the first two pitches in one pitch.  I followed nervously.  It felt hard.  It was steep and sustained, much as promised.  Plus none of the holds were where they were supposed to be.  Or they weren't as positive as they were supposed to be.  Or something.  I was completely unnerved by the time I reached Todd.  The third pitch, short but supposedly the crux, was my lead.  Todd gave me a quick lecture about placing plenty of gear at Seneca.  "The rock's smoother so pieces pull easier," he said.  My partners are always trying to think up excuses for me to place more gear but in this case it wasn't necessary.  I was fully spooked when I set out from the belay.

I did the traverse at the start.  Well, that was fine.  Then moved up.  Not so bad.  Kept going and hey, that was a pretty short pitch.  Somewhere along the way I'd forgotten that the holds weren't positive and that all my gear was going to pull if I fell on it.  I was leading; I was happy.  At any rate, it didn't feel anything like the crux pitch to me, although Todd tried to insist that it did to him.  I walked away from Ecstasy thinking maybe I'd be able to handle Seneca grades after all.
 

Well, guess who?  It was Tony Barnes, of whom I'd never heard a few weeks ago but who had recently had his own sub-thread on rec.climbing and who wrote the guide book that fortuitously arrived from Amazon the day before we left.  Todd and Tony knew each other from Todd's days as a Seneca regular.  They got caught up and had a laugh over Tony's recent guest flame-ee status on rec.climbing.  I am constantly amazed by how small the climbing world is and how neatly rec.climbing joins it.

We were headed to Traffic Jam next.  A 5.6, Todd said. 5.7 now, Tony said.  They were just about making winky-faces at each over it and Tony said something about the back wall being on or else it was 5.9 and Todd said that the back wall was certainly not on and I had no idea what they were talking about.  A 5.6 has to be pretty sandbagged to get to the point of being scary-hard, right?  Mmmm, hmmm.

Now, in front of the so-called 5.6 (5.7?, 5.9?) I see that it looks hard.  I also see the "back wall" - a completely separate wall of rock that is behind you when facing Traffic Jam but that is within bridging distance.  I am given my orders:  lots of gear down low, no touching the back wall unless I'm desperate.  I begin, place a piece, place another piece.  It's pumpy but it's fine.  Everything here is steep but luckily I've been working hard on my strength and I'm still not worried.  With the second piece in I eye the next move.  The next move is . . . hmmmm . . . where exactly is the next move?  After studying and rejecting several options I decide to check on that piece I just placed.  It could definitely be better.  I adjust it.  I go back to studying, try something, slip and almost come off, just catching the edge of the crack and barely hanging on long enough to rebalance myself.  I see a possible move - possible if I had any strength left, that is.  There must be a 5.6 move in here somewhere.  Another look at that last piece.  Not so good really.  Adjust it.  There, that will certainly hold.  Study the move again.  Try it Todd's way.  Ridiculous.  Look at my way again.  Much too hard.  Definitely feeling desperate now.

I step back. 

The wall behind me is beautiful.  The stem is sturdy and restful.  The 5.6 move is clear.  Just push my butt up a foot or two and then step back over to the crack where it gets easier again.

I take a few deep breaths and apologize to Todd.  Then I take a few more and accuse him of purposely seeking out the one 5.6 in the world that could scare me out of my wits.  Then I take a few more and step back into the crack and pull the move.  The route lets up a little after that but not much.  It's in your face the whole way and I probably placed more gear on that short route than I normally do on one twice as long.  I'll agree to 5.7 if the back wall is on.  I'll take 5.9 (minimum) for the crux move if the back wall is off.  I would suggest that the guide book should rate the route both ways but . . . what the hell.  I've done it now and the next time someone mentions a "nice short crack that used to be rated 5.6" I can make winky-faces about it myself.  Welcome to Seneca.

We rapped down and around the corner to the Critter Wall where I led Critter Crack (5.6) and Crispy Critter (5.7).  Critter Crack was easier than Traffic Jam but harder than Crispy Critter and I was left feeling pretty confused about Seneca ratings all the way around.  We still had a couple of hours of daylight left but I was tired and shaky from so much leading on new rock and we had three more days of climbing ahead of us.  Somehow the words "ice cream" got brought up and the decision was made.  In no time we were back in town where we raided the general store for goodies and beer which we took to the porch of The Gendarme.  Todd renewed some old acquaintances and we exchanged the usual climber talk: what routes are sandbagged, what routes are gimmes, what routes we'd done, what routes we were going to do.

Next up was dinner at the Front Porch:  good subs and cheese fries with the remainder of the beer.  Then early to bed, early to rise, and . . . yuck.  Back into the tent to let it "burn off".  A later look showed only minimal improvement - might as well have a leisurely breakfast and let the weather settle.  Off to Valley View again.  Today's special is ham and I forgo the biscuits and gravy, but the meal is just as good as the day before and there are breaks in the clouds when we leave the restaurant.

Unfortunately, the cloud cover is solid again by the time we get to our proposed route, Candy Corner (5.5).  There's also someone on Candy Corner so we rack up for Ye Gods and Little Fishes (5.8) instead.  There's a light drizzle by the time I'm ready to go.  Our route is slightly sheltered by a roof, only the bottom looks wet.  The leader on Candy Corner is bailing from just below the crux as I start up Ye Gods.  Ever since my falls on subsequent days at the Gunks, both partially attributable to wet rock, I'm very easily frightened by wet rock.  Plus, the crux on Ye Gods is down low, another non-favorite.  I move slowly on the route.  Beyond the crux I'm feeling better but I'm still moving slowly and placing a lot of gear.  I can feel that one of my legs is shaking slightly.  Overall I'm giving off more of an appearance of nervousness than I'm actually feeling.  I look down to let Todd know that I'm OK, but he isn't paying the slightest bit of attention to me anyway.  That's fine.  Unlike some people I generally prefer to be in my own little world when leading; comments from the Peanut Gallery just distract me.  I finish the lead slowly, on slightly damp rock at the top, and lower off.  Surprise!  I guess I was in my own little world.  The sky is beautifully blue.  Looks like the rain has blown through and we're going to have a nice day after all.

Todd cleans Ye Gods and sets up Drop Zone (5.11).  He also downclimbs the Candy Corner crux to retrieve the gear left by the leader who just bailed off it.  By the time he hits the ground it's raining again.  Amazing.  We huddle in a corner while the other group, their gear now restored to them, hides in a nearby cave.  Todd whispers to me that we're lucky we're not participating in a rescue - the anchor he cleaned could only have held thanks to a lot of rope drag over an edge.  The rain doesn't last long but Todd wants to give the rock a chance to dry before doing Drop Zone so he suggests that I climb Ye Gods again - on toprope in my approach shoes.

After some consideration I decide that I'm in favor of the idea.  One of the most irritating things about being a new leader is the way your partners insist on following your leads in their approach shoes.  I've never climbed anything in my approach shoes.  How am I ever going to be able to humble a new leader when my turn comes if I can't climb without my rock shoes on?  It's a fun opportunity.  I'm surprised to find that the route isn't that hard.  I'd never led anything I'd followed or followed anything I'd led before.  It's a good lesson.  Perhaps the next time I'm sketched on lead I'll remember that it's a mental problem and be able to reason myself into relaxing.  Well, it's worth a try anyway.

Todd then TRs Drop Zone, hanging at the crux to rest.  I fall a couple of times at the crux before figuring out the sequence (left, not right - should have watched Todd more closely) but feel good about eventually doing all the moves.  By the time I'm down it's raining again and we spend a little more time huddling.  When the rain stops, we move around the corner to The Burn (5.8).  Whether it's because The Burn more closely resembles a Gunks route or because 5.8 seems a lot easier after 5.11, it feels comfortable to me, comfortable enough that I can employ my newest trick of purposely placing gear from bad stances as practice for harder routes.  Only the crux gives me anything to think about and it is so very Gunks-like that even it isn't very worrisome.

Todd sets up Sunshine (10a) from the top of The Burn and we both manage it on TR with only minimal whining.  It starts to rain again and we call it a day in response.  Friday was supposed to be the worst of our four days at Seneca - the weekend is promised to be better.  We can afford to knock off early today.  General store for goodies and beer, porch of The Gendarme for kibitzing.  It's a good time.  We eat dinner that night back at the Valley View where I have the dinner special - Baked Steak.  In case you're wondering, it's sort of like hamburger in a baked stuffed shrimp coating.  Not bad and with good cafeteria-style mashed potatoes.

Another early night, another early morning and . . . ick.  We've been lied to.  The sky is dark and heavy with rain.  We try the other diner for breakfast - the one where most climbers eat - and decide we like Valley View better.  Over breakfast we discuss our options.  The day's plans had called for being pretty far from the car, a scenario that is not at all appealing in the face of an eminent downpour, so we bail for Franklin, a sport climbing crag about half an hour from Seneca.

We don't have a topo for Franklin (anyone? I'd love to know what I climbed) so we have to rely on Todd's three-year-old memory of the area which goes something like this:  that's maybe 5.9, that's like a 10, I think that's an 8, no maybe that is.  I lead a couple of (perhaps) 5.9s without much trouble.  Todd leads a (maybe) 10a and we pull the rope but leave the draws for my attempt.  I don't get it cleanly but I eventually struggle to the top of it. Todd then leads a (so we think) 5.11.  I do this one on TR but we both agree that it's actually easier than the 10, which is the way Todd remembered it. 

At one point on this route, I was cranking off these two little holds with my foot up at my waist so that my center of gravity was way away from the rock and, as I was pulling the move, I was thinking, "I can't do this move.  How come I haven't fallen off yet?  Hey, wow, I actually did that."  I came down pretty psyched.  Pulling a move that you know you couldn't have done even a week before is a most excellent feeling.  That strength training is really working.

Next we moved to one of Todd's old nemeses, a 5.10 (or whatever) that shares a start with another route up an arete and then veers left to a big roof.  Todd managed to get up to roof cleanly and even managed to clip the bolt over the roof, although the amount of rope he had to pull up to do it had me wishing I was anchored.  He took a few tries at the move, eventually getting up to the good holds over the roof but without the strength left to pull through the final hard move.  He lowered off.  It was my turn to try. 

But how to work the rope?  If I climbed on the leader's end I was risking a big pendulum if I came off before the traverse.  The pendulum looked clean, but it was going to be big.  If I climbed on the other side of the rope I'd have to unclip as I went by, eventually ending up clipped into only the top-most bolt.  Todd had some ideas about unclipping one side of the rope and reclipping the other but I was afraid of getting confused and ending up completely unclipped so I ultimately decided to climb on the leader's side of the rope.  After all, the crux was the roof and by then there'd be no pendulum issue.

OK.  So there were really hard moves before the crux too.  There I am, hanging off of completely inadequate holds, totally pumped, at the last bolt before the start of the traverse, wondering how bad the swing is going to be if I come off, and Todd says, "Are you at a good stance?"  Let me just say that when I read the thread on Monday about "the worst thing you can hear while climbing", the phrase "Are you at a good stance?" immediately came to mind.

"No!" I screeched.  "Why?  Are you about to drop me?"

"No," he assured me.  He wanted me to clip a draw from my harness to his side of the rope to try to eliminate the pendulum if I came off.  The classic dilemma: I'll be safer if I do this but I might fall trying to do it.  I clipped the draw as instructed.  There now seemed to be rope everywhere, most particularly in my way.

"You need to step over the rope," Todd told me.

"You're trying to kill me," I told him.  I stepped over the rope.  Moved up, moved down.  Hard move up there.  Bad stance down here.

"You need to step over the rope," Todd told me.

"I just did," I told him.

"Yeah, but you got back under it again."  I stepped over the rope.  OK.  This was too much.  I clipped straight into the bolt and hung.

"Rest a minute," Todd said.  I hate resting.  One minute of resting, a bit of beta from Todd, and I unclipped from the bolt and pulled the move.  Another hard move, then the start of the traverse, not bad, then up to roof, hard moves but footwork-hard so my kind of hard.  Ah, the roof.

I already had the beta from Todd.  I was to stick my left foot into the big horizontal under the roof.  It would be good enough to hold me but not good enough to break my ankle if I fell.  I stuck my left foot into the horizontal.

"The other way," Todd said, "with your toe pointing right."  Impossible to switch now.  I came off into the void.  Todd had lowered back down to the end of the traverse after each fall but I stubbornly managed to get back on under the roof.

Left foot into the horizontal, toe pointed right this time.  Yes, it's good enough to hold me.  I reach up over the roof to the next hold, which I can't find.  I let go and learn that my foot will not, in fact, break if I fall from this position.  Good to know.  Another attempt nets me "the hold".  Hah!  It's a tips-only slopey sidepull.  I tell Todd that he can pull me over the roof now.  Between the two of us I'm brought up to the level of the bolt.  From here I can reach both the so-called hold for the left hand and a better hold for the right hand.  Still can't move off it without any feet though.  I clip a sling into the bolt and stand up in it.  Now I can reach the way-better holds that Todd got to.  All I have to do is do a pull-up, lock-off, bring my left foot up to a teeny edge at my waist, and stand up.  Uh huh.  Maybe straight off the ground if I were totally fresh.

The backup plan is for me to escape right onto the other route and climb over the roof from the side.  Luckily, this plan works.  From there I'm able to thread through the anchors at the top of our route and lower off to clean, difficult in itself since there are no holds with which to pull myself back into the rock to take the tension off the draws.  I finally arrive on the ground, my earlier triumph of strength all but forgotten in the face of this travesty.  I'm laughing on the way down about what an epic the whole thing was and Todd agrees that it was about as epic as sport climbing gets.

We retreat to what may or may not have been a 5.8 which may or may not be called Barnacle Bill.  My mind tells me it's only 5.7 at the worst; my arms are saying "This jug isn't big enough.  I'd like a bigger jug, please."

We can see a patch of blue sky in the approximate direction of Seneca.  Todd really wants to get me on Triple S so we pack up, make a quick stop at 7-11 for snacks, and head back that way.  Even with uncooperative weather, it's hard not to be pretty damned happy driving along windy country roads, feet up on the dashboard, good music in the CD player, a cherry Slurpie in one hand and the other hand dipping into a bag of Hot & Spicy Pork Rinds, somewhere between a sport route that just thrashed you and a challenging trad lead, but safe for now.  It's a lot like heaven.

Naturally the sky was dark grey when we arrived at Seneca, but we threw rain gear in the pack and made the slog up to the start of Triple S anyway.  This route had come with far too much pre-publicity for me.  It was certain to be ugly.  Todd warned me to take the rests where I could get them and I thought that perhaps now, following the great roof debacle, was not the time to do a strenuous route at my leading limit.  Besides, I hate resting.  Oh well, at least the crux is farther off the ground this time.

It's all stemming with some chimneying and a bit of laybacking or a face hold here and there if you feel like giving your hands something to do.  There isn't a strenuous move on the route if you don't want there to be.  There are moments when it occurs to you that if your right foot, the one that's just resting against that little bump over there, were to suddenly blow there'd be nothing to keep you from falling past your last piece.  It was at those moments that I'd look down and decide that my last piece was too far away.  I placed quite a bit of gear (including placing two pieces from the same stance which made Todd laugh - I call it "nest building" when he does it), always waiting for that crux that was above me.  I pulled up onto a ledge and spotted cold shuts.  Looking over the edge at Todd I found him, surprisingly, actually watching me.

"There are anchors here," I said.

"That's the top," he said.

"Oh," I said, surprised then relieved then happy. The only part of me that was tired was my right foot.  It was a perfect antidote to THE ROOF.  I lowered off and the weather immediately deteriorated.  "Climb fast," I silently urged Todd as a cold mist blew into my face.  He did, of course.  We went straight back to the car.

We repeated the by-now tradition of beer on the porch of The Gendarme and then had pizza at the Front Porch.  The pizza wasn't great by Connecticut's high standards but it was a long way from bad and I sweet-talked the waitress into bringing us garlic bread even though it wasn't listed on the menu as a separate item.

On Sunday the weather hadn't improved so we finished the trip with a last breakfast at Valley View (today's special features bacon) and left for home.

Therefore, in summary:

Seneca ratings:  although there are the typical variations from route to route, once I was used to the rock I didn't find the ratings in the most recent edition of the guide book to be particularly off except that Traffic Jam is not 5.7 unless you get to use the back wall.  I'm putting my foot down on that one.

Seneca food:  must have been OK because I think I came back five pounds heavier.

Seneca entertainment:  the porch of The Gendarme is a great place to spend time.  Climbers everywhere are fun and friendly people.  The instant rapport still amazes me.  And a warm tent is not at all a bad place to be on a rainy evening, especially if the company is good.

Furthermore:  the summit is everything they said it would be; the place is beautiful; the climbing is great.  I loved Seneca and I can't wait to go back.