For the Love of...

I had my best climbing day yet yesterday on a 5.6 with a retired geezer I met last week and didn’t think much of. Fortunately, he thought more of me and gave me a chance as a partner, and helped me remember why I climb.

After After 6 (our 5.6 on Manure Pile Buttress) it was only three o’clock, so I looked around for another route and settled on what I thought was a 5.9 bolted slab to a crack. I racked up to 2”, added some quickdraws and stepped up. And back down again. And up and down, about eight more times before I stayed on long enough to clip the first bolt.

With a start like that I had my doubts about making it to the next bolt and I prayed that was the crux. I wasn’t that lucky.

Standing on the rounded backbone of rock, my stiff shoes sliding off slick crystals, I told myself to trust the equipment and make the moves. It was all about feet – little steps, high steps, balance, oh, delicate balance on this slightly-more appealing dike instead of the worn white face and step up – don’t breathe – and inch the fingers across the face to the next crust of granite. Then you can breathe, blink the eyes to remove the glaze and consider all edge/smear/mantle possibilities for the next move.

This was the first time in Yosemite that I’ve felt scared and out of my league and I’ve climbed through it.

I could’ve taken, I could’ve backed down, I could’ve hiked the 4^th class gully to the left to retrieve my gear once I decided my shoes were more like shoe boxes and I couldn’t do the moves. I had a moment where I almost grabbed the draw – it was right there – but I tucked that fear into the back of my mind. I gathered all my slab-climbing experience, from the .10b slab at the base of the Hobbit Roof in Joshua Tree, to the slab to the left of Bloody Finger in City of Rocks to the slabby arête I’d pulled just last week where I hung right at the crux, two inches and mental miles away from the jug – and I breathed. Looking around for my next hold, the wall was sadly blank except for a knob three feet north. Instead of putting up the wall that said I couldn’t possibly use these big-bird shoes to smear my way up there, I high-stepped both feet, mantled with my left hand to reach right and had to stand on tippy toe to reach that damn knob. I settled my fingers into that fingernail edge and sagged onto the comfort of an almost-hold. Once I clipped I almost grabbed the draw – the wall looked just as blank and my calves were giving out from (what felt like) hours of waffling.

I knew I could do it now. I’d trusted my shoes, my body, my mind, it had all worked together. Part of my confidence was the continuity and feeling of the day, the need for a challenge at the end (I like to get scared, remember), and Len’s belay. I’d spent the whole day building a climbing relationship with him, and I knew he was paying attention to my every move. Having a competent belayer (not one who tells stories about his partner whipping 40 feet while he belayed) is key to my confident climbing. I pulled through another dicey section and finished that damn route. I felt proud of myself, and I felt like I’m back. I’m back in control of my lead head, and my desire to climb, my love for the sport, my itch for adventure are all back to their rightful place – at the top.

Sidenote: The old geezer is Len, a retired doctor living out of his Sportsmobile who bums around climbing areas and gives out cards identifying him as a PIMP – Personal Income Management Professional. If we could all be so lucky. Plus, he’s pretty cool guy.