Climbing

The 10am departure turned out to be lazy. Lazy need not equal bad, but, in this case, it meant we arrived at the parking lot to see inventive parking. By see, I mean participate. Nothing too fancy on our part, we simply added onto the end of the established line of parking spots. As we geared up, people filled some nearby grassy areas. And then some more people did the same along another stretch obviously not meant for parking. One guy went all-out, in that he parked on a mound, the sedan nearly more vertical than horizontal. No idea if such a position harms a vehicle, though the owner of the car will know more on this topic than me come later in the day. Tomorrow, we shall aim at least an hour earlier. I suspect others will have learned a comparable lesson. An arms race recast into a quest for parking. That’s what our mountains have become, it seems, at least when they offer stellar climbing, multitudes of it, much of it varying in style.

New Hampshire has provided us ample people. For being the 41^st state in terms of population, we’ve had our most up-and-personal experiences here. We stopped at a Qdoba, which technically was in Massachusetts, not too far from the border, but for the sake of the narrative let’s pretend we were in The Granite State rather than The Bay State. It was located in a strip mall. Or, maybe it was an outdoors mall. I don’t know where one classification morphs into the other one. There were many stores and restaurants. No music piped from speakers hidden in the bushes, though. but it did appear that there may have been more stores behind the initial ell-shape of commerce that held our destination. Like the Rumney lot, this place was afire. People everywhere. Cars everywhere. So many cars. It felt like another realm, where people had truly beat back COVID-19. Of course, everyone wore masks, so it’s not like they have a vaccine and have kept it on the downlow. Nothing to see up here, in NH, don’t mind the needle marks and our hale nature. No. Not at all.

We’re renting an Airbnb. The host saw us roll up and charged out to greet us. She then gave us a tour. Here’s the oven. This is the fridge. Important stuff. Insider baseball. No masks. I don’t know if I’ve been in any homes with people w/o a mask in months, until this trip. Going back to the crag, an abundance of cars equals lots of climbers. Some people work masks. Most didn’t. We’d didn’t. Souls everywhere. Hot breath spraying gobs of whatever. Everywhere. A whole new world. That is, life up here in New Hampshire is a whole new world, as in the old world. Before the plague. We’re in 0 AtP. Next year will be 1 AtP. Then 2 AtP. You get the idea.

We jumped on a 5.7. Jug haul. Fun for the grade. It starts with a large roof that you can pull with one jug and a high foot. Quite a roof. Looks pretty cool. Especially before you do it. From there you wander about grabbing jugs. I did clip from a crimp, though. I don’t think that I had to do so, but it felt right. Spicy. It’s almost—well, it probably already is—pumpkin spice latte season, so, yes, I clipped from a crimp. Spicy. Years ago, my first visit here found me on Armed and Dangerous, 10a or 10b or something. OMG. It was tough. I still could feel the trauma. I had top roped it last time. There are some smooth bands that you shimmy up to reach a small roof that was a desperate move for me last time. I can see it all so clearly. Then, at the top, you power into a roof and make multiple moves all while severely overhung. Panic struck, whenever I thought to get on the route again. Turns out that it’s soft. I was surprised. It went easily.

Cocky and redeemed, I jumped on a 10a. I almost peeled off when going to bolt 2 to 3. Nearly the whole climb was tough. Not many great holds. Positioning remained key, time and time again. Don’t-fall-here zones proliferated portions of the route. At one spot, I had to carry the rope with me to get it around a rock. We used this route as an entrance to second pitch 11b climb, which was tricky, quite tricky. It was hard and covered with spider webs. Kelly led this pitch. Spider webs clung to her hand for the remainder of our day. Only water, soap, and committed scrubbing could peel the webs from her flesh. After the thuggy 11b, we celebrated with a 10c that had one ridiculous move. By one, I mean that you did one powerful move and then discovered that the hold you struggled to reach actually sucked. As did the next hold, and then you had to keep going. There was no retreat. No downclimbing. It was wonderful, when it ended, that is. Seriously, though, it was a fun climb. Maybe not so enjoyable while you were thick in the crux. Looking back, the crux of this 10c may have been the hardest, most committing series of moves on any route during our trip.

Last, we got on an 11a. The guide calls it technical. By technical, I think they want you to feel good about trusting the glassy slab foot that you use to exit the dihedral. The dihedral isn’t too bad, for the crimp edges offer bite, but that foot. Ugh, that foot was something. I was not too happy about trusting it and then my foot slipped, but I held on and came back for more dicey, glassy love. Somehow it all worked out, and it serves as the first 11a that I’ve onsighted. Though, I see that people call it a 10d. Glamor achieved. Glamor downgraded.

Sunlight abandoned us so we returned to the car to visit a grocery store. The store at which we landed is awesome. It’s like a lowkey Giant slash Whole Foods with reasonable prices across the board. Lots of gluten-free products and various upscale offerings without severe markup alongside the usual stuff you’d find at Giant. Lovely. We grabbed enough food to get us through breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for most days of the week.

Day two brought us to Kennel Crag and New Wave. We started on a 5.9. It was terrifying. No fall zones. Committing moves. Sketch factor. A theme we’d experience repeatedly during our trip is that a 5.9 at Rumney requires more than a sliver of mental fortitude. Falls tend to not be safe, a reality compounded by each of them containing a stretch that is surprisingly difficult for the grade. After warming up on one of these ugh-filled 5.9s, we switched to a 5.10c that has a fun exposed traverse that rides an arete before concluding with a thin finish. At New Wave we jumped on a 5.11c that kicked my ass. I couldn’t get past a bulge. No, it said. Smack. Down I’d go, again and again. I had to pull on the draw to skip the section. Fun climb, but that crux was something. I was wiped after having flailed multiple times. I sort of stared blankly for a while. There, but not really there.

We dropped down to a 5.9+. Bad move. It was another one of those smack-you-in the-face 5.9s. 5.9, the grade of fear. The description for this route made it clear that it’d be an experience. A trad climber’s route. Lots of pushing and pulling oneself through a maw of dihedral, using cracks, and generally muscling yourself along using what pivoting and fulcrum points you can establish. Higher up you face a run-out section, and, of course, you’re forced to commit to some holds before you can reach the bolt. It was quite a workout. At some point, somehow, I managed to pick up a fist-sized patch of blood on my knee. Its source, unclear. The route abraded my knee, but nothing that would have bled enough to produce the splotch. At the time, I assumed it had come from me. But, later, I began to doubt this source for my knee wasn’t too damaged and the stain looked to be darker on the exterior than the interior of the pants. Thus, I likely picked up the stain from the wall. Maybe it was ruddy dirt rather than blood. Not clear. But, I’m pretty certain that it did not originate from me. Very odd, and potentially quite gross. At least I looked like a bad ass, I guess. Or, maybe I resembled a klutz who leads his steps with his knees.

We closed by getting on an 11b. Fun route. Not too difficult, though you did need to fight through one section that required a bit of commitment and trust as you pull up and then push down on a sloping, questionable hold to top a ledge. Not a bad day. We headed down to the car feeling aglow.

Day 3 was a rest day. Full workday. Lowkey. I went for a run during lunch, finding a long, covered bridge. It was surprisingly fun to charge along this wooden expanse. Strangely unsettling too, as if I had been transported into a low-budget horror film. Something unknown and unknowable might lurch from the periphery to take me down. Robed cultists could manifest at each end of the expanse. Anything was possible, including a lovely midday jog. The night brought Gloomhaven via Zoom. We lost our current scenario, again, for the second time. I love that we lose occasionally. Makes me rethink my character and contemplate those of my friend’s. There’s a reason our society finds itself drawn to films like Groundhog Day.

Day 4 provided another full day of climbing at Orange Crush. We started on a 5.9 and then a 10c. Both were fun, nothing too dicey, with interesting moves and a bit of height, nothing too tall though. These were our warms up for the main affairs, a two-pitch 11a and an 11c, though, on the 11c, if you stopped at the mid-anchor then it’s probably more fairly characterized as an 11a, which is what I did. Kelly, however, did take the route to the top.

While warming up, a group climbed some of the routes below us. One guy pontificated, “Liberals want to preserve forests in some natural state as if they can be pristine.” On and on he went with his understandings of the world. People group demographics together and then ascribe particular viewpoints to them, as if they’re collective and unyielding. He describes what could be considered my preference for forest management in broad, inaccurate strokes. Through the broadest of strokes his statement aligns with my position, if grossly simplified. So much of how we as a nation discuss politics falls into this trap of simplification. It’s easier to understand and discuss varying ideas by compiling them yet it’s also disingenuous to the actual conversation that should be happening. Such is life, I suppose. I also remembered this baseball jock from high school who argued with a classmate about women not being smart or at least good at science. Name famous women scientists, he urged to support his position. At the time, his viewpoint had seemed wrong, but I lacked the means to explain the flaws in his logic. She floundered, he named like five famous males, if not more, for each female name she could come up with. So many systematic flaws exist in our biases.

Tropicana, the 11a, was my main goal this route. I needed to redeem myself. In July 2017 I first visited Rumney. The trip occurred not long following a hiatus. I had been resting my elbow and forearm due to a loss of strength that had arisen. I had taken like 6 weeks off and my strength and endurance had taken a hit. Thus, I did not perform well during this visit, as seen by my attempt on Tropicana where Sean had led the first pitch and then I had been unable to bypass the first crux. It wasn’t a high point in my climbing history… I led the first pitch. Not too bad. I did have to try hard. Relief was inspiring upon reaching the anchors at the ledge. I belayed Kelly to me.

It’s surreal to see a person come over the lip into a balcony for a multi-pitch climb. The person appears naked and alone in a sea of sky. To reach the ledge, you perform a mantel move with the body thrusting backward to make room to bring up a high foot to leverage against while pushing and twisting to leverage over the edge onto the ledge. The dramatics of this motion add to the incongruity of the scene. This sight does not feel right. It feels bizarre, like seeing a human in flight. The world recedes so that the person appears foremost in the foreground, everything else shrinks away except for the rock immediately surrounding the person and the limitless blue around her as if the air has become transformed into an unyielding halo. I cannot explain how odd this visage is to me. I don’t know if it’ll ever become normal or expected. Each time it happens, even many pitches up on a multi-pitch climb it strikes me as wild during each of its iterations.

Kelly ended up lowering to the ground from the top of the second pitch. I wasn’t excited about leading with her that far below me, especially since you start by moving up a ledge, so I top roped the route. Something had happened when we lowered, causing the rope to curl up on itself. I’ve never seen a rope so twisted. This top rope climb was the scariest part of the day. Kelly was 60’ below me, so there was already a lot of dynamic slack in the system. The curls of the rope stretched for many feet ahead of me, tightly spun upon itself it became a battle to remove the rope from the quickdraw carabiners. I saw many feet of rope caught up in these twists. I envisioned a crazy catch where I’d be violently spun by the kinked rope as it worked itself out as my weigh pulled on it. I wasn’t sure how weakened its integrity might be due to the twists. This pitch was several overhung so I wasn’t sure how easily I’d get back on the wall. So much uncertainty. I climbed hard and remained anxious, but got to the top and lowered and we sorted out the rope.

I was also excited to get onto Black Mamba. During my second trip to Rumney, I had top roped the climb, and watched friends send it. I was not there, physically or mentally at the time. On this day, however, I felt good. I managed to reach the anchors with one take. Maybe a take and a fall. I now forget. The route yielded to me on the second attempt, and I got a video of the attempt as well. The crux is a bit cryptic. There are chalked bits of rock everywhere, including a massive, positive flake out left. I do not use this mega-hold, though. It’s a trap. Rather, there are two crimps that you can use to bring up your feet to then reach a mildly ok thumb-like hold that lets you move your feet up again so that you can reach a flat, sloping section of rock on which you can press to get a high foot that lets you reach, or lunge for as I did during my send burn, a mega hold from which you clip. The remainder of the route isn’t easy, but it’s also not terribly difficult and you can rest before performing the more trying movements. I did not have the mental fortitude to do the traverse left to reach the first bolt of the extension. The rest of the route looks beautiful, though, so I’ll have to return another day. Kelly did each pitch clean, in sections, having rested at the anchor. So, perhaps, she’ll enjoy another romp up it some day in our future.

Day four of climbing was a half day. We visited The Meadows, getting on a sketchy 5.8 and a sketchy 5.9 before doing a rather fun 10b, an ok 10a that was harder than the 10b, and then closing out on a 10d that was excellent. The 10s were all long routes, like ~100’. Thus, we got in a good chunk of mileage. I’d like to return to this area to try out the 11d and 12a as well as a long 5.9 that looked like a lot of fun. The 10d was only that grade for a couple of bolts, whereas the long 5.9 appears to be consistently 5.9, which might make it a more fun climb overall. Time shall inform me whether my suspicion accords with my appreciation of reality.

There’s something to be said for a day of cruising easy routes. Feeling that fluid movement without the attendant drama of struggle. To enjoy what you can do without pushing to discover the boundaries of what can be done. Most days of life for most people align with taking it easy or at least moderate. Why must we perpetually push at the boundaries while enjoying a past time?

The next day, we worked all day.

Day five of climbing would be our last day at Rumney, encountering an omen on our way there. Each time we drove to the crag, we passed a pottery with a sign outside declaring that the potter is working today. We envisioned the potter as having been enslaved, always forced to be on display. A zoo. However, today, the sign was not out. Did the wind blow it down? What happened? Inauspicious, surely. From the lot, we hoofed it to Jimmy Cliff to get on a decent 5.8 and a wonderful 5.10a, another route that had scared me during my initial visit to Rumney. Both went fine, and I much enjoyed feeling vastly more comfortable on the 5.10a. We then visited Waimea, the climb as well as the area, and climbed it without problem. Then we jumped on a 5.12a that was difficult, but I could see getting, at least except for the last move which I ended up cheating. We then both aborted on Flying Hawaiian. This was another route that had stymied in the past. And, it did so again this trip. Some routes simply aren’t for all people.

The next day, we headed home. A fun, glorious trip. We shall return, one day.

There’s a route at the gym that does a great job conveying certain lessons. Whether the setter intended to provide these experiences, or I am simply appreciative of happenstances that have struck me, I know not. Nor do I care whether what I perceive aligns with the designs of the setter. As with literature, being aware of an author’s intent may influence your take on it but need not dictate your understanding. What we gain from any stimulus remains ours, and we may share how we conceive events so as to influence others, which is the same point of reference and influence that I accord to any designer, namely being one voice that calls out from the thicket that any one of us might heed or ignore or accord merit to at any gradation within the continuum thereof.

It’s a 10c, and fairly graded at that. The initial moves are not that difficult, yet you can pump yourself out should you move inefficiently given that it’s an overhung route. Not steeply. Not severely. Enough, however, to feel unforgiving at times, especially if you max out at the grade. What I appreciate about the route, and this has nothing to do with whether or not I enjoy this climb, is that when you reach striking distance of the fourth bolt, you’re not in an ideal position. To linger in this stance would invite rapid fatigue. The next hold is a sideways three-finger pocket. This hold does not appear to be all that exciting and that it is not a hold onto which you can pull down directly, I can see many a climber electing to clip the rope into the nearby carabiner before moving onto it. However, that is a mistake, for despite its apparent awkwardness, you can lean into the hold as you bring up a foot, thereby providing a rather relaxing position. It looks awkward, and requires you to rotate into a restful stance, but it’s an easy clip and a restorative moment that alleviates your forearms should the below sequence had pumped out your arms.

The lesson here is that if you go higher, the route rewards you with an easier clip, helping you continue on your journey to the apex of the climb. For, the next stretch is a little technical and overhung and requires use of some smaller holds, all of which can cause your forearms to burn. Then, after clipping the next bolt, you face a large span in-between your current location and the next, massive hold, which looks to be a sloper. I have witnessed many a climber take here. Rest, and then do the big move to discover a gigantic hold, a lovely jug on which you can rest, for you can make good use of holds as feet to provide a nice relaxing position from which you can recharge to charge the anchor above. Many times I have overheard a climber lament, if only I had done the move, I could have sent this route. Two lessons here, each near each other. Move, fight the pump, search for better lays of options ahead, for sometimes the saying rings true, when in doubt, run it out.

We made it to a rock wall. Glorious. I was surprised that climbing felt as smooth as it did. Not that we pushed grades, but with the exception of one move on a mid-10 nothing felt all that hard. Sure, my shoulder hurt at one point, and it was torture to shove my feet into my shoes following the third or so climb, but it was not difficult to read routes and make my way through cruxes presented by the generally easy routes that we explored. I look forward to getting back outside and will continue to train as I have been doing as this period devoid of gym visits extends. The side benefit of keeping my health general in check to combat asthma, the deleterious impact of a hypothetical covid infection, and general lethargy and depression—for working out is a wonderful way to keep the darkness at bay—remains present and at the forefront of my weekly activities, Turns out that burpees, runs, core exercises, and other heart-pumping motions keep me climbing fit as well, at least to a point that I can get through a weekend full of tall moderates (each route ~90’).

Two weekends in a row spent outside in a tent have been truly uplifting. It’s looking like we may get outdoors again this upcoming Saturday. May this trend stay alive!

When I first started climbing, I hadn’t expected there would be this much ass-to-face. They don’t tell you these things.” — Something I once overheard.

Having blown six or so clips while climbing at the gym, only a handful of people have provided me the opportunity to experience the craziness from the other perspective. This is a good thing for it’d be lovely to not have blown any clips and to not have had to save someone who had headed down such a life path. These are the events where shit can feel serious, and I’ve heard a fair number of stories that involve a level of tragedy that would leave me shell-shocked in the way that crosses my mind when, for example, a motorcyclist zips between cars and I wonder how it would forever impact me to be the person that clips the vehicle, sending the person into oblivion. Regardless of the specifics of an event, like in terms of its origin and extent, things simply happen, and we then we must deal with them, however we can, to whatever outcome.

Fortunately, every fall of mine while clipping has ended up fine. I know that—to some degree—luck plays a role (in terms of my not getting injured), as does climbing with competent people. Further, two times, I have managed to “hero clip,” thereby culling the danger. That is, to make the clip as the fall begins so as to reduce the distance to be traveled. Of the other blown clips, each has found me dangling far from where I had been, but above both the ground and my belayer. Actually, perhaps once or twice, I had been equal to or below my partner in elevation once the explosive force of physics quieted. Yet, regardless of specifics in terms of where each participant ended up physically, the dominant narrative has involved a scream of ‘fuck’ or some equivalent utterance followed by bliss; it is a beautiful thing to remain intact.

A couple of months back, a friend fell at the third or fourth bolt. He had been reaching out to clip when his foot slipped. Down he plummeted. I had been using belay goggles. Something about those devices can cause me to not understand exactly where I’m standing in relation to the climber. If I put a lot of active thought into what’s happening then I can position myself appropriately, but at that moment I had just gotten back into climbing after a hiatus and I was feeling a little bit out of it that day and, well, I was apparently right under the climber. His ass and my face became intimate. Outside of some transitory pain, and embarrassment, all was fine, fortunately.

He was unscathed. Only I, the fuckwit who had failed to belay properly, had suffered from my error. I recall having cried out, “Jesus,” or, “Good lord,” or “fuck me,” or something equivalent (and, yes, a half-garbled, staccato squawk muted by surprise and fear serves as “something equivalent”) as gravity began to accelerate his behind toward my awareness, the center of me, that being my eyes and head, from which consciousness seems to spring forth. Once the fall abated, and ass and face had been separated, we asked each other if we were alright. “Yes.” “You?” “Yes.” “You sure?” “Yes.” “You’re bleeding.” “It’s ok. My ear feels like a cauliflower, but I’m fine.” I saw horrified looks in the eyes of those nearby. It turns out I exclaim whether falling or catching a blown clip; I had done something more than merely mouth my horror. Surely, they had heard my scream, malformed or not, and reacted to that as well as the sight of the fall and collision.

This failure sucked beyond it being namely that, a failure, but also because it dampened my perception of myself as a capable belayer. I had been clinging to memories that had propped up my ego, that now needed to be reevaluated. Most prominently, I’ve been proud of the one prior time that someone had blown a clip, which had occurred several years ago. The climber had outweighed me by about thirty or forty pounds and the drama had occurred at the third clip. In response, I had sucked up some slack and dived toward the ground. As his weight tugged on the rope, my body lurched upward before it reached the cushioned floor, and all was fine. That sort of reflex—calibrated to the needs of the moment—embodied how I’d like to behave consistently. I felt like a superhero. So, it was a bummer for a slew of reasons when I had become a momentary ass-face, chimera-type bodily mixture during this mishap of a catch.

Flickers of that ass striking me would overtake my thoughts during climbing sessions that followed in a pattern familiar to me. As a kid, I had seen a snippet of a horror film via an Entertainment Tonight review where Freddy Kreuger reached through a wall against which a terrified teenager had pressed. His arms around the person, knife-blade gloves magnified in their deathly totality, you knew all was fucked for that character. I recall leaving the living room to visit my brother, and I felt unease as I had my back to his wall as I relayed whatever it is that had prompted me to enter his bedroom. Those blades would flash through the wall to get me. As I spoke, they attacked me within my imagination, repeatedly. I see this memory as a movie, in that I experience it as both the child that I was from those young eyes as well as from a hovering observer in which my brother and I are actors in a scene. For years this fear plagued me. An image grounded by anxiety turned tactile in the sense of uplifted hairs on the forearms, widened eyes, and quickened pulse becomes concrete and like concrete lasts. Similarly, as I belayed people going forward, I could see their asses smashing into me as I feared myself faltering [again] in my duty.

One difference between the stalwart save and the feckless ass-face fiasco stems from the details. I had anticipated one fall, whereas the other came as a surprise. The heavier climber from years ago looked unsure. He had started to move and aborted his action multiple times. Hesitation and notable lack of faith in himself defined his efforts. That he would fall seemed at least as probable as him succeeding with his attempt. Fully alert, contingencies in mind, I rose to an occasion that seemed definite, etched into the tome that defines all that has come and all that shall; the universe determinate, unwavering. This other fall, well, as I already indicated, it was somewhat of a surprise and, as I relayed above, I was not on my a-game at the time. Also, belay specs, which I do not use often, alter my perception. Their mirrored view transports me into another world. My awareness feels disjointed, in two places simultaneously. It’s something to which I can adapt, but the lesson here is to train with the glasses when my partner is on easier routes, and to forgo them otherwise. Though, it might be beneficial to practice with them when the climber is higher, like at least halfway up the wall.

The other night, I was at the gym and my partner got on this difficult route. He is someone who will almost never chance a fall, even when the rope is clipped in above his head. He looked solid as he approached the third bolt, and rather than hit it from low, he moved up closer to it. There he was, to the right of the carabiner, reaching with the rope to make the clip. The instant his fingers approached the gate, he lost control and went tumbling. I sucked up the rope, pulled my upper body away from him, and fought only slightly against the upward force, enough force to prevent me from colliding into him but enough ease as well so as to not spike him. And it was perfect. He stopped above me, above the ground. I went up, but not so far that I could collide into him.

Everything sparkled with an aura of perfection. Smiles. Laughter. He looked to be halfway in shock. His blown clip prior to this iteration, with a different belayer involved, had resulted in a damaging ground fall. Surely, he had found himself transported back to that moment as he fell, as his brain took in all of the details as it does when it’s terrified and had led him to the thought that this event would be, like the prior one, dismal. There’s an appreciation of life and happenstance that overtakes you when danger has been dodged. That rush took him back to the sharp end, and he managed the clip and later went home with a spring in his step that hadn’t been there when he had arrived at the gym. It’s nice to be reminded that it’s good to be intact, and alive.

This catch provided me a sense of redemption. Going forward, asses began to recede into the distance as I belayed, which is to say they remained attached to their respective climbers, doing the dance that the given climber was navigating rather than crashing down toward me. Sure, at some point some ass will target me like a heat seeking missile tracking a fighter jet. Should that ass attempt to strike, I know that I shall be prepared with chaff flare countermeasures in the form of competent, agile belay skills. Or, perhaps I’ll just practice quick belay escape maneuvers and get the hell out of there! Fight or flight, one way or the other, right?