DISPATCHES

Anderson

6am, the alarm goes off and Brady and I quietly down a protein shake and some granola, while Jimmy and Steph lay comatose in the ledges, recovering from yesterday. I clamp on my ascenders and begin the journey upward to our high point. My body bounces as the blue static rope stretches slightly from my efforts. I am carrying all the supplies I will need for the day: water, food, warm clothes, a camera, and I am also trailing a 60-meter static rope. The weight of these items limits my progress. To keep a rhythm I jug 20 feet then take a short break. The wall is overhanging and I rest free hanging 10 feet away from it, spinning slowly counter-clockwise, taking in the valley floor 2500 feet below. It feels almost like some type of strange amusement park ride, but this is my reality and I jug upward hoping to keep my breakfast down.

Although most people think the act of climbing is really scary, for me ascending fixed lines can be more frightening. When I am climbing, I rely on the strength and skill of my own body to move through the vertical world and the rope is only a backup in case I miscalculate. However, when you ascend a fixed line (or jug up them, in climber speak) you rely 100% on the equipment and the skill of your climbing partners to build a solid anchor and place the fixed line away from sharp edges. There is nothing more terrifying than looking up, while ascending, and seeing the white core of the rope poking out of the sheath as your jugging action causes the rope to saw back and forth on a sharp quartz crystal. Fortunately, I'm climbing with three extremely competent people, with years of climbing experience, and I trust their judgement with my life. And for those areas where sharp edges are unavoidable, there is always duct tape. Yes, that miracle substance pads sharp edges and protects climbing ropes, too.

Last night Jimmy and Steph explained, "The ropes are kind of screwed up." Late in the day and far to the right of the previous line, they were forced to set up a tricky system of ropes to rappel back to the ledge camp.

"Lower out on the yellow line then jug up the black around the corner, you won't be able to see the anchor at this point," Jimmy explained.

Steph added, "After you climb up the dihedral a few pitches, you should be able to rappel straight down."

Brady goes first and actually seems to enjoy himself suspended between the two ropes, looking like he is crossing Lost Arrow Spire in Yosemite by a tyrolean traverse. I arrive at the belay just happy to be there.

Climbing in teams of two is kind of like sharing an office with two co-workers who work alternate days. Rushing to meet deadlines, in our case approaching darkness, the belay station is not often left completely organized by the last climbing team. Instead of misplaced files and lost pens and pencils, Brady and I set about the task of organizing the climbing protection and ropes for the pitch above us.

I hunker down into the belay seat as Brady starts up the opening moves of the dihedral, free climbing. He battles past several small prickly shrubs growing in the crack. Not sturdy enough to serve as handhold or footholds, but taking up space in the crack, these plants are just a nuisance. Shortly, the route steepens and the rock quality deteriorates, forcing Brady into his aiders. The pitch is long, awkward, loose and time consuming.

"Tag up a number two camalot, some knife blades, toucans and some tie off slings and any spare biners you can find," Brady shouts down from near the top of the pitch. I tie on the requested items and watch him carefully reach the belay ledge; avoiding knocking off any of the large loose blocks that would bee-line straight down for me.

My pitch starts up a thin, slightly overhanging, crack. "Looks like it could be hard aid," comments Brady. The beginning of the pitch follows a tiny crack up the left side of a 30-foot-high detached block. My hammer is clipped to the right side of my harness and every time it casually bumps against the block, it makes a loud dull gong-like noise. I place some small nuts and soon I'm through the lower scary section and into solid rock with continuous placements.

After fighting a losing battle to try and carve a way through the choss band two days ago I am content climbing this straightforward aid pitch. The flaring, just-beyond-vertical nature of the pitch makes it a physical climb, but I feel more like a carpenter framing up a house than an artist blowing glass, like Jimmy did yesterday. The pitch ends on a sloping ledge with an interesting looking hand/fist crack above. Brady and I debate about continuing upward, but the late hour leads us to straighten the fixed lines and rappel back to our ledge camp and dinner.

— Dave Anderson, MountainZone.com Correspondent

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