Sawteeth Summit

From the summit of Sawteeth Mt., High Peaks, Adirondack Park. When you can't climb rock, climb mountains.

From the summit of Sawteeth Mt. When you can’t climb rock, climb mountains.

So this weekend, because Jex is on an enforced recuperative hiatus from climbing (to let a finger heal) we went hiking in the Adirondack High Peaks instead, and climbed Sawteeth Mountain. Now I think I have a new bucket list goal: all 46 official over-4000-footers in the High Peaks. Two down: this one, and that peak over there on the right of the photo: that’s Gothics. Which I summited the hard way in 2011.

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La Sportiva, can you ever forgive me? Can you take me back?

Last summer I picked up a pair of Scarpa men’s Technos online on a members-only sale site. They were $25, what was I supposed to do? And they were tight, but they fit fine. I did lots and lots of climbing in them. I went to England and Scotland in them. And they started developing holes in the toes – the tips of the toes – this spring. (I know that it’s partly because when I make big rockover moves, I hop my lower foot up the wall to help a little. I know that’s tough on shoe rubber. But it’s also how I pull the moves.)

So, I went back to MEC. They didn’t have my usual, workhorse, fit-like-a-glove La Sportiva Nagos in stock, so I poked around a bit and settled on a pair of Scarpas again, Helixes this time. I picked them up so I’d have them for the Red River Gorge trip in April.

The first few times you buy shoes, you don’t know what you want. Then you find a brand you like and maybe you stick with it for ages. Then you start figuring out, by buying and wearing other stuff, what it is you *don’t* want.

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Scarpa Helix-induced blisters. (Yeah, the nail polish is wearing a bit off. I’m mean to my feet.)

The Helixes were not a great call. They didn’t really hurt my climbing: but man, did they hurt my feet. They caused blisters on my big toe: I started slipping my shoes off every chance I could get between climbs (and with lace-ups that’s a pain). I think the problem was that the toebox was too boxy: they fit my foot, but smashed my big toenails back hard into the toe (even clipped back as far as I could manage). By the end of the day, my feet would be burning.

And the rubber was thin. Both the Technos and the Helixes wore through a lot faster than my Nagos usually did. I could usually wear a set of Nagos for a year and a half or two: the Technos lasted ten months, the Helixes just five, and then this weekend, working on some smear-heavy, high-texture granite at Montagne d’Argent, this happened.

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The rubber just peeled off in great flakes. I lost a chunk about the size of my little fingernail on l’Écaille du Dragon, on the big layback moves up the top of the flake. And the rest came off on a tough crack climb that was too hard for me. I know I was scrabbling a lot on it. And it didn’t help that by the time I made it through the crux, I was scrabbling on that smooth white plastic. (Other shoes I’ve worn have leather under the rubber, and it doesn’t peel nearly as fast. The plastic was a surprise: I thought these shoes were supposed to be more sensitive, and I feel like this would be a lot stiffer than leather.)

I get that the rubber on these shoes probably isn’t meant to take out the punishment I was giving it this weekend. I had a weak weekend: my head was gone (of which more later maybe) and I wasn’t feeling particularly strong. Which meant I scrabbled a lot, I slipped and fell. I lost skin as well as shoe rubber. But still: between being uncomfortable, particularly for longer days, and having fairly flimsy rubber, I’m really not regretting retiring these shoes. With thanks for helping me clarify what I want, and for a couple of good days, and a no thanks for the blisters, aching toes, and the surprise slippery plastic.

I’m going back to La Sportiva, if she’ll have me.

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Age and experience = score

There really is no substitute for experience. One of the great things about climbing is how much opportunity there is to learn from more experienced people, and the things you learn can be really surprising. Experienced climbers know a lot of odd things about how rock behaves: for instance, that rock isn’t actually hard, permanent, or immovable. Rock actually flows and flexes. Experienced climbers also know a lot about the application of force and physics. I got a demonstration this weekend.

We were up at the STD Wall at Rigaud on Saturday, an area I hadn’t been to before a week or so ago. When we got there, I spotted a bright yellow sling sticking out of a crack very low on the rock. “What the hell?” I thought, and went to check it out. When I got there, I saw that it was, indeed, a cam, and a brand new one – a C3 #2, in fact, in nearly mint condition.

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My reconstruction of what happened was this: a new-ish trad climber had gone out and assembled a rack. Judging from where the cam was lodged, they’d plugged it into the wall to hang their rack, the way a lot of people do, but they weren’t familiar enough with small cams to know that they’re really easy to overcam. You have to be really delicate with them. They pulled the trigger all the way back, plugged the cam pretty deep, hung their rack, and then couldn’t get the cam back out. I imagine they fought with it for a while, trying to squeeze the trigger harder and not being able to get it any smaller, trying to wiggle and slide it up and down in the crack. Eventually, probably with curses, they had to abandon it. There goes $50 or so. It is now, how we say in climbing, “booty.” Whosoever shall pull this cam from out this stone is rightwise owner of it.

And it was brand spanking new. I really, really wanted to get that cam out. Most of my “discount rack” is made up of hand-me-downs, booty pieces and repair jobs. Plus, it was a challenge. So, between climbs, I’d go over to the cam and start trying to figure out how it went in and how it might come out. When I managed to get it to slide up a few centimeters and into a slightly wider chunk of the crack, and then forward a bit toward the outside, I really got determined. I got a nut tool and started trying to break away the loose flakes of rock inside the crack to widen it. I jimmied the nut tool behind it to try and wiggle the lobes a bit more selectively: maybe I could slowly walk it forward that way. . .

Then one of the guys we’d ended up climbing with, Calvin, a climber with something like 30 years of experience, came by to take a look at it. He went back to his gear, pulled out a slightly bigger cam, and brought it back. He stuck the bigger cam in, a little above the C3 where the crack widened, and we tried pulling on it to pry the crack a little wider. That didn’t work, so Calvin clipped a sling into it, and stepped up into the sling.

See, how a cam works is that it’s a force multiplier. You pull the trigger back to pull the lobes together, reducing its width. Then when the cam is placed in a crack and the trigger’s released, the lobes press out against the rock. When force is applied to the stem, the lobes expand out harder against the rock. The harder you fall onto it, the better it sticks.

Calvin’s weight on the sling put enough force into the bigger cam’s lobes that the crack in the rock actually expanded: just a tiny bit. Just enough that the C3 came out as easily as if it had been placed properly. It was the coolest trick I’ve seen in a while. Though he’d really been the one to get it out, Calvin handed the cam over to me and said I could have it. I did happy dances.

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I know, intellectually, that climbing involves forces that are massive, but it’s still amazing to see it demonstrated like this. Look up what a kilonewton is: as far as I can tell, a fall from 10 feet above my last piece would generate, for me, something over a thousand pounds of force. If I’m falling on a cam, it’s directing that force against the walls of the crack and multiplying it. If just stepping on a cam can spread a crack in granite, think how hard the cam must bite into the rock on a fall. And the engineering is as amazing as the physics: these things can bend the rock before they’ll break.

And now, I have a brand new piece of gear as well as a renewed respect for the kilonewton and a lingering sense that rock is a much more complex beast to interact with than you’d think at first.

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Note to self: don’t save the steepest for last

Having been kept out of the Dacks by rain, David and I ended up spending the whole long weekend on local crags (Round Lake – which I’ll talk about in another post – Montagne d’Argent and Rigaud). Three straight days of sport cragging makes for a tired, tired climber – at the Dacks we would have been doing longer, multipitch trad routes. The routes themselves would have been much longer but the climbing wouldn’t have been as strenuous, simply because when you’re climbing long trad you tend to be climbing significantly below your grade. But when you’re cragging, especially sport, especially somewhere you can get top ropes up, you can climb much harder stuff.

Which meant that by the third day, when we met up and decided where to go, I should not have settled on Rigaud. It’s not that it was a really bad call, but after two days, including fighting a couple of 5.10s the day before, I was starting to feel it. My energy was a little low. And then I had to deal with Rigaud’s weird (for this area) rock. Rigaud is made of pinkish, high-feldspar, glassy stone that breaks along blocky fault lines. It’s jagged and pointy, with a lot of pillars, deep dihedrals, horns and ledges. Leading at Rigaud can be spooky because of all the blocks and spurs – there are a couple of spots on the easier climbs where a fall could smash you into something if you’re not careful (at least on the harder stuff you’re usually falling off an overhang and into empty air).  At the lower sections of the cliff there’s often ground fall potential.

It’s also steep. Even the areas that aren’t, overall, vertical or more than vertical are often made up of a series of stepped slightly overhanging sections. Which means there are a lot of moves that require you to hang off your hands over empty space trying to walk your feet up high enough to find purchase and push yourself up. To add to that, the holds are often just a little less positive than you’d like and at just the wrong angle for what you want to do with them. It’s upper-body intensive. It asks for arm and hand strength.

So I pick it for the last day of three?

Needless to say, I probably didn’t have as much strength left as I should have, and I did rather a lot of falling off things I probably shouldn’t have been falling off. Then, on top of that, I picked a lead (Morning After) that starts out with a serious overhang, flailed below the second bolt, fell off a few times, and had to have David finish the lead. But, it wasn’t about the tick list, I suppose, and I’m getting to like Rigaud more and more as I figure out how to climb it (it takes a different skill set from the stuff I’m used to/good at). I’m much bolder at Montagne d’Argent where I’m climbing faces and slabs and cracks; Rigaud takes me down a peg.

We did, though, go check out a section of the wall I’d never been to before, off to the right, where there’s a number of harder climbs (in the 10-12 range) and some quite nice easier climbing. I struggled on a 5.9 there that had a burly move, pushing up onto a big ledge with one arm while trying to get a finger ledge above, and trying to get the feet onto something even remotely useful below, and finally had to admit defeat. I don’t often have successful days at Rigaud; but I do have satisfyingly exhausting ones.

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Damn you, weather gods!

Between yesterday, when I met up with David at the gym to talk plans for a trip to the Adirondacks this weekend, and this evening, the weather forecast in Keene, NY has gone from woohoo (40% POP) to ah shit (90% POP and thunderstorms). The universe just doesn’t want me ever to climb Chapel Pond Slab, apparently. And we were both really psyched about Roaring Brook Falls, too. Poop.

I know. These are the things you learn to roll with.

But damn it all, my new (to me) gigantic hatchback, Gojira, was going to be taken on his first climbing road trip. He even got a tattoo (well, the automotive equivalent) for the occasion (well, okay. Maybe not just for the occasion. Maybe I wanted a climbing decal. Maybe I actually am That Guy. Don’t judge me).

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Ah well. All is not lost. We may run off to camp in the Laurentians instead (Montagne d’Argent, Val-David, the Weir). Which means I might actually get to see Val-David! As things stand, we’re meeting tomorrow morning and talking through alternatives.

Gojira may yet get to have a tent and a sleeping bag and a guitar in his cavernous cargo bay.

 

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About not knocking people’s hats off

“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off – then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.” 

- Moby-Dick

Insert “the crag” instead of “sea” and that’s about it. I had a reminder this weekend about how complex the relationship is between your mind and climbing.

We were at Montagne d’Argent on Saturday and I was not in a great space. For no real reason: I had just been depressed for the last while. This is the kind of depressed that doesn’t really have a cause, with all the attendant stuff that entails: lack of energy, lack of motivation, and a weird background sense of foggy, indeterminate anxiety or fear that occasionally morphs into sadness. You feel weaker, less coordinated. It’s hard to focus on anything. The thought of just the average everyday stuff you have to do, like the dishes and remembering to get cat food, is exhausting. At its worst, the idea of even interacting with other people just seems like a Herculean effort.

But I was there: up early, lunch made, gear packed, and in the car on the way to MdA. (I think the day I’m depressed enough to bail on climbing is the day I get myself actually checked out by a professional.) I noticed that it seemed harder than usual to climb the stairs to the Grand Canyon area. But at least I knew what was going on: I knew it was my head messing with me. I hadn’t said anything to the others yet, except a little to Jex that morning when I picked her up.

I wasn’t about to quit, but I was worried about whether my head would be in the game at all. You never know how the day is going to go, whether you’ll be feeling strong and bold or scrabble in frustration at moves you know you should be sticking, and I was kind of dreading that last one. But I was waiting to see if the climbing would kick in. Sometimes, when I’m having a really foul day is when I’ll pull some piece of climbing brilliance out of my butt: at the very least, partway through the day my mood almost inevitably brightens. Something about being out among the trees, on the rock, working hard, with people around me who care about climbing too, and listening to the sounds of gear, which to me are the most utterly comforting sounds in the world, usually does the trick.

We picked a spot in the Canyon (which was wide open, maybe because the weather people had been going on about chance of rain) and chose some climbs. I methodically unpacked my pack, flaked out the rope, got my harness on, and got on belay for David on a 5.9 route. I climbed after him, and sent it without a whole lot of trouble. It was actually a great climb, with a couple of tricky moves over a bulge and some lovely stuff at the top where it rounded out and you had to use a series of diagonal slashes in the slab that went a little the wrong way. But when Michal said, “You didn’t really stop on that at all. You want to lead it?” I backed off.

“Maybe in a bit,” I said.

I thought about why I backed off. And I thought again about leading it. Knowing that if I could climb it clean, I knew the moves, and if I knew the moves, there was no reason not to lead it, and that I really ought to be leading a lot closer to my top rope grade.

Then I thought about how I was actually feeling a sort of vague, general anxiety. About nothing: not about climbing, not about falling, just a feeling of worry in my gut, while I climbed a couple of other routes, including a lovely crack climb that really put me through my creative paces and made me use all the different crack techniques I’ve picked up and learned to love. I climbed it, and I enjoyed it, and there was a strange disconnected anxiety in my guts all the while.

So I looked up at the rock and thought about the stupid games my head was playing with me. And when the guys asked again if I wanted to tackle that 5.9 climb on lead, I said, fairly honestly, “Not right now. The sun is right up above the edge of the cliff, and if I try to lead it now I’ll be climbing blind, and that’s at the edge of my lead limit. And I’m being careful with my emotional state right now.” And then I told them what was going on in my head: the amorphous anxiety, the sadfear, and how I wanted to be careful with how I tackled it. I didn’t want to put myself on lead into the sun: that would only end in my backing off the climb after attempting the start, or after a bolt or two, and that would be worse for me.

And they got it, which was great. No one questioned that my head and I had a problem, or that I was thinking through how to deal with it. Michal talked about having had his climbing grade knocked down once by trouble in his personal life, some of the rest of us compared times we had lost our heads for a while because of injuries or falls or life worries. I felt like I’d given myself time to think through whether I was just using my mental state as an excuse not to push myself out of my comfort zone, and I was mostly convinced I wasn’t. Or, I guess, that I had good reason to be cautious about how far out of my comfort zone I went. But I still wanted to push, carefully, through and out of that comfort zone, because I felt like it would shake my head back into place.

So I threw myself, on top rope, at a climb that was far too hard for me, and flailed hard on the crux moves. I only made it through because Michal gave me some serious “belayer assist.” But fighting that climb, and fighting as hard as I could, did do something to dislodge the sadfear and kick it out of my guts. So then I came down, and started eyeing my quickdraws, and picked up the guide to look for something to lead. Something to kick my ego back into shape.

Partly it was the way Michal had asked me, more than once, if I wanted to lead something: not as a challenge, just as an offer. Partly it was the slight dislodge I’d given the mood, with my nudge at the borderline between easy and challenging. Partly it was not wanting to end the day and have to say I’d just coasted and climbed top rope the whole time. So I picked something I remembered leading before, a route called Le Retour des Loups-Garous, a 5.8- further down the cliff, and got my stuff and a rope and headed down there with David to belay me.

Unfortunately, someone was just setting up a top rope on Le Retour. So David pulled out the guide and we moved back along the cliff, winding up at the next nearest thing, Le “speech” de Gaetan, a 5.8+.  I looked it over: it looked like it had decent moves, the bolts were fairly close, and at 8+ it was graded harder than I’d wanted but not harder than I could feasibly do. And for some reason I wasn’t afraid anymore, not even the usual nervousness about leading a climb. The sadfear had headed out and taken the regular fear with it, about the same time I’d picked out a climb to lead and grabbed my draws. So I started up it.

It turned out to be a lot harder than I thought it would be, with a pair of crux sections, one requiring smeary, tiny feet (your toes on little crystals) and some faith that when you got up a little higher there would be something for your hands. When I got there, I started the move a couple of times, and rested back on the rope after a few tries because my feet were burning. Eventually, I managed to just go for the move, and with my hands on smallish vertical edges and my feet pressed against nothing but texture, I made it, shouting, past that move and to the next clip. Then again. And each time I made it through one of the moves, I’d feel the same thing: completely unaware of anything but sticking to the rock, and a slight wonder that I actually was.

Sadly, I got to the last stretch of the climb – where it rounded off and the holds were nothing but shallow bulges and I needed to do a high step into a shallow scoop and then trust that foot – and the confidence to trust the hold didn’t kick in. I tried more times than I expected to, but in the end I found myself getting my hands on the holds, stepping up onto my right foot, getting the left into the scoop, and then not moving any higher. Over and over. Eventually I thought I might have pushed myself as far as I was going that day. It wasn’t that I was scared, because I wasn’t, really. I just didn’t think I could pull that move, and I didn’t want to spend much longer frozen on it, just getting more and more tired out. So, in the end, I lowered off the last bolt before the anchor, and David seconded me and finished the climb, just as it started to rain and we all started to pack up.

But the funny thing was, because of everything that had gone before, fighting my way up to that last bolt felt like an achievement. Like I’d been slowly, inch by inch, pushing myself out of the darkness. So I was okay with falling up a 5.8+ sport lead. I was actually pretty happy with myself.

And I felt a lot better. The sadfear was gone. I scrambled a bit on the rock, I ran back and forth between our two groups to pass some messages, and I enjoyed the sun that had broken through after the rain shower ended.

And I slept much better that night.

Oh, and this was the day’s climbing earworm (I was happy to find out my friend Glauco has the same thing happen to him. I’m not alone in my madness! Maybe the climbing earworm is another of those strange things your brain does to cope with climbing. I don’t know. Anyway, at the top of the first climb was when this came into my head, and stayed there):

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Even better than “extra gear loops”. . .

We were talking yesterday at the crag about the fact that one of my friends collects her and another climber’s rings and clips them to her bra strap for safekeeping. And I said, as I’ve said a few times, one of the advantages of being a female climber is you have an extra couple of gear loops in the form of your bra straps. Not for anything heavy or weight-bearing, mind you, but when you have to clip that spare ATC (or whatever) somewhere easily accessible so your hands are free, it’s useful to have that strap on your shoulder.

This, though, takes “stuff you have because you’re a girl, which magically turns out to be useful” to a whole new level. A mini Leatherman, that’s also a hair clip? I love it. I think I want one. More out of the principle of the thing than because I actually think it would be much use. The combination of tools and girly is kind of irresistible.

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Canada Day Weekend Climbaganzapalooza

Canada Day long weekend again, and this year I spent it again with a bunch of people at David’s cottage on Lac Sam, some of us climbers, some not. David’s Canada Day party is a long standing tradition among his friends and he busts his butt to organize it each year. Some of his friends swim and hang out and play board games; lately, since we’ve opened up climbing areas on the lake, a group of us come with all our climbing gear too.

The lake from the top of Upper Cliff: this is definitely the most beautiful place to climb around Ottawa.

The lake from the top of Upper Cliff: this is definitely the most beautiful place to climb around Ottawa.

Over the four days, I hit every area: 5.SuperFunWall, Lower Cliff, Jumping Rock, and Upper Cliff.

5.SuperFunWall is back in there somewhere!

5.SuperFunWall is back in there somewhere!

5.SuperFunWall has two bolted sport routes on it now, thanks to David’s efforts. You have to canoe a fairly long way to get to it, but when you reach it, pull up a canoe at the shoreline, step out, drop your pack and you’re at the base. Most of the climbs are pretty moderate, and the 5.9ish bolted line on the left is pretty cool, finishing with some burly and ballsy stuff for the grade, particularly the fine thin edges at the top, just before you’re completely done with getting over a bouldery roof. We did that on Friday, though I got there late with Jex, and as we got there, the others were already heading to Jumping Rock. So we missed out on Jumping Rock that day, but we did get to climb for a while at SuperFunWall, and have the occasional boater come past, spot us, then inch curiously up toward the shoreline to try and figure out what we were doing. “Oh!” a couple of older guys in a dinghy said, “They’re rope climbing. . .” (From halfway up one route – Gneiss & Grandy, I think – I invited them to join us. They declined.)

But then there was Sunday, when four of us – David, Jex, Noah and I – paddled over to Lower Cliff. Unfortunately, we found ourselves over there one harness short. D’oh! Never fear, David’s always ready to go (potentially painfully) old school:

Yes, that is, in fact, a harness constructed out of slings and carabiners.

Yes, that is, in fact, a harness constructed out of slings and carabiners.

Would you like a closer look at this feat of MacGyvering? Okay!

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Admittedly, this harness was only used for top rope belaying – no climbing, no leading. We had to trade around harnesses a bit to accommodate for that. But, still, it worked.

I think for me the best part of the day was sending Slab O’ Doom, a 5.10a route on the big slabby face (I don’t think I’ve climbed it clean before, and certainly never with as much aplomb: Noah, who was belaying me, said, “You just sailed through that!” when I came down) and getting tapped to pink-point Dave, Dave, Dave of the Jungle, which is the oldest climb at the crag, and which I’ve led before, but not recently.

(It occurs to me, since we were climbing with Noah, who’s sixteen, that it’s likely some younger people might not actually get why we called it Dave, Dave, Dave of the Jungle. And that makes me feel a wee bit old.)

Anyway, David had left his gear in when he put a top rope up on the slab climbs, so someone had to go up and lead Dave, Dave on his gear, and that someone turned out to be me. I was glad of it, too: I haven’t been leading nearly enough lately, and this was a good lead. I remembered again that when I’m actually on lead, things get so much more focused, and I don’t actually feel scared. Instead, I just feel sort of hyper-sharp and aware of my own thought processes.

There were butterflies everywhere, and they weren't afraid to land. This one didn't even take off when Noah started taking up rope.

There were butterflies everywhere, and they weren’t afraid to land. This one didn’t even take off when Noah started taking up rope.

After we finished up at Lower Cliff, Jex and David went back to the cottage, but Noah and I grabbed the spare canoe and headed to Jumping Rock. He’d been there the day before, and had his sights set on sending the main line up the boulder, a steeply overhanging problem that starts out relatively easy, and then gets progressively harder and harder.

So we paddled up, got the shoes on, and jumped into the water below the rock. I had brought along my waterproof camera for just this purpose.

Jumping Rock. 30 feet of awesome. (Noah's project was the semi-obvious right-slanting crack which vanishes and rounds out at the top.)

Jumping Rock. 30 feet of awesome. (Noah’s project was the semi-obvious right-slanting crack that starts at bottom middle and vanishes and rounds out at the top.)

Jumping Rock has a fairly accessible lower rail – that lighter bit you can see down by the waterline – and it seems like its usual pattern is that it starts out relatively easy and just keeps getting harder as it goes up. I can, on a good day, haul myself up to where my feet are on the rail. After that I slip off.

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The heel hook while I got it together for the left-hand-up move. Which stuck for like, oh, maybe two seconds. Then – SPLOOSH.

Noah, though, is another matter.

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That’s him on top of the leftmost problem, which no one’s really graded. Last person to estimate a grade for it called it a V7: Noah says no, but maybe there’s a harder variant at the top.

He went back for a couple of runs at his project, too.

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... aaaand he hits the water.

… aaaand he hits the water.

We paddled back tired and happy about it.

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Day Three: Noah’s parents and sister headed back to Ottawa (we’ve been climbing with Noah and his mother Chantalle for a while now: his father and sister were also invited along to the cottage this year, though they don’t climb. But Noah had decided he wanted to stick around the cottage and keep climbing. David wanted to spend some time with his non-climbing friends, and Jex had to go back to work. So. . . it was just Noah and me, heading off in David’s car to Upper Cliff.

The slightly odd thing about climbing with Noah is that while he’s vastly stronger than me (he’s on a competitive team) I have more outdoor experience, so I’m still kinda the leader when we’re out there. Plus, at Lac Sam, I know the cliff a lot better, and it is really hard to find the anchors if you don’t know where you’re going. Though, when you do find them, it’s a great crag.

Noah chilling out above the anchor for Pink Floyd Wall.

Noah chilling out above the anchor for Pink Floyd Wall.

We spent the afternoon rappelling in to various climbs, then I’d climb back out and bring Noah up from the top. Then we’d move to the next anchor and repeat. I had a whole lot of fun on Tits ‘n’ Ass, which has been bolted, but which I didn’t lead this time: thought about it, but that opening crux kicked my butt too much, sadly. The second, though – the signature part of the climb – went better than usual. It’s an awkward wriggle, arms first, through a pinch at a pair of roofs. Like half a funnel: you have to climb up through the narrow bit into a widening dihedral, with very few handholds and your feet a little loose below you. Noah, somehow, got into it back first, so that when he made it through the pinch, he could actually just lean back in the dihedral like he was in a lawn chair, and look around. (It’s hard to describe, and I wished I’d had a camera – and a free hand.)

In between climbs, we chilled out at the top and took in the view.

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And we wrapped the day up at Pink Floyd Wall, which Noah hadn’t been to before, climbing Shine on You Crazy Diamond (big overhang at the start full of sketchy crap friable rock, but fun, followed by a bit of slab and a nice twisty finger crack to the top) and Welcome to the Machine (big move to get onto the boulder at the bottom, followed by some ho hum, and then a lovely, hard, thin, three-move face, which I fell only once on. When Noah scrambled to the top of it, he said, “I don’t know you you did that face, but what I did was . . . weird. . .”

By then we were dirty and tired and sun-stunned, and the lake looked good enough to try jumping into from where we were (300m up). So we hiked back to the car and got ourselves back to the lake, and dinner.

And then the last day the weather was a little iffy. Unsettled. But that meant it was time to go back over to Jumping Rock (from which we could flee quickly if the weather people’s predicted thunderstorms started to loom) and see if Noah could send his project. David came along, and our non-climber friend Ian came too, to scramble around on the rocks and jump off.

I messed around too, but at this point I was getting a bit tired, I think. But, after Noah taped up his fingers, then somehow managed to swim to the start without getting his hands wet, he took a run at the project. He peeled off the first time where it starts to taper off and get vertical, took a break while the rest of us noodled around on the rock, and then I went to get the camera so I could catch it on video, and he made another attempt.

As you can see in the video, it was raining at the start, and the wind was really picking up. It started getting ominously dark just after this, and we piled into the canoes and raced home as fast as our arms could take us, particularly when we heard some thunder rumbling in the distance. But, we all made it back in time to get up to the cottage and be safely dry, with beer in hand, before the heavens opened up.

And then we had dinner, did some cleaning up, jumped in the lake one last time, and as night fell the last of us headed back toward the city.

And that was Climbaganzapalooza 2014.

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Lawks!

. . . said Merry, looking in. The stone floor was swimming. ‘You ought to mop all that up before you get anything to eat, Peregrin,’ he said.

- The Fellowship of the Ring

Sorry. I just can’t think about the flood at Coyote last night without that quote in my head. Yes, I am a huge geek.

10494990_10152109553856073_7296066830404982188_oI was bouldering on my own last night. And it was pouring rain outside, one of those full-on Southern Ontario downpours. I’d stopped on the way in to watch as one of the drains, which had reversed itself with the levels of rain, turned itself into a mini-fountain, burbling back up in the middle of Lake Coyote (formerly the parking lot). Going outside in this, for even a few seconds, was resigning yourself to feeling as though you’d jumped fully clothed into a lake.

And then as I took a break from bouldering to go to the water fountain, I suddenly saw an advancing edge of water streaming across the concrete floor from the new section. And then I realized that the new section was a couple of inches deep in water. A blocked drain? I don’t know. As I watched, the edge of the water went racing into the women’s locker room, and I ran in to pull people’s shoes and bags off the floor before it got there.

And it just kept moving, spreading down the lane to the base of the stairs, getting deeper and deeper. By now the staff and a few members had started racing around, ripping up foam backing from whatever they could find, shoving rolled-up gym mats and bits of carpet into the doorway to try and dam up the new section. One of the guys on staff climbed, repeatedly, to the top of the boulder to grab sheets of foam from beneath the flooring and throw them down, then start over. I offered to help but they said there wasn’t much I could do.

By the time I’d texted my friends to let them know what was going on (and that maybe they shouldn’t join me), and decided my rock shoes were too wet to really keep bouldering, the new room was mostly dammed up and they were trying to sluice it out into the (also flooded) parking lot.

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Here’s sending good thoughts to Coyote for the quick and uneventful drying out of the new area! Wish I could have been any help. Very late that night (midnight-ish?) they posted this picture of the aftermath on Twitter: with the note that the new area would be closed for a while.

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My poor Coyote.

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Flying at Eastern Block

“I’m trying to work out whether I’m not okay with it, or if I just think I’m not okay with it.”

I must have said that a couple of times as I got ready to go up and take down the anchor on a dead easy climb at Eastern Block yesterday. David and I had wanted to work on Coda (5.10a), a slabby, very delicate climb that was unfortunately trickling with water, so way too wet for David to lead, though he tried.

To get the top rope up, he’d gone up the easy route next to it, placed a quickdraw on its anchor, then traversed over to the top of Coda and put another anchor up. But when he had made the sketchy, wet, treacherous traverse once, he really didn’t want to go back to take down the first anchor, and then make the trip a third time to lower off the second. So, we decided I’d go up the easy route, take the quickdraw off (leaving me with a rather large amount of rope out from the anchor on Coda) and then downclimb a couple of moves to see if I could traverse closer to Coda before dropping onto the rope and swinging leftward across the face to hang off Coda‘s anchor.

I thought I was okay with it. Mostly because, from below, I was looking at it and thinking, “it’s a clean face, there aren’t any big blocks or ribs for me to hit, and I can get down a bit from the first anchor before I jump, and it’ll be a bit of a fall, but really more of a swing. And I need to work on falling anyway.”

We’d been climbing all day, and I’d only led once – everything else felt out of my range. But, also, I’m held back by my fear of falling. It means I don’t often lead at my limit. Not that I feel like I should be falling my way up leads – I still feel like the trad ethic of “your gear is a backup for your climbing” is a good one. But falls happen, and I need to be able to climb through a tough patch without fear of falling freezing me up and sapping my strength. We’d been climbing alongside a foursome who were a great example for me of people climbing at their lead limit – their lead limit being about mine, I think – and taking some falls. And I’ve backed off a couple of leads lately because of head issues. So I volunteered for this.

I was fine until I got to the final move, where you have to step out wide on a smallish ledge, then reach up to the anchor. And I looked over at the anchor on Coda, which was a couple of feet below me and several feet – ten, twelve maybe? – off to my left. Eep, I thought.

It took some psyching up before I finally made the move to go up and get the quickdraw, leaving me on the Coda anchor, and then downclimb a couple of moves so I was at least below the second anchor. I didn’t want to slip and fall – which would have probably bounced and keelhauled me along the wall until I came to a stop somewhere halfway up Coda – I wanted to be in control of when I jumped so I could be prepared.

Most of the psyching up was about telling myself it wasn’t free fall, it was just dropping onto the rope. I’ve swung longer distances when lowering, if there was a redirect in the line or something, and I’ve bounced and jumped and run along the wall and goofed around on rappel without worries. I told myself there was nothing for me to hit on the way, and it was as clean a fall as you could get. But David did check with me if I was okay, remind me that he could do it if I wasn’t okay with it, try to remind me I didn’t have to. That was the second time I said I was trying to work out if I was actually not okay with it, for good reason, or just being nervous.

Then I stepped up, balancing on one foot, took the quickdraw out, backed down to a foot ledge, looked over at the Coda anchor to make sure I was below it now instead of a couple of feet above, moved down a couple more inches until I couldn’t go lower without David running out even more rope, checked that he had me tight, and jumped off.

The swing across was only a little less controlled than I wanted. I got my legs out to ward off the wall as I came into it, and then it was all over and I was hanging in my harness and David was lowering me. Apparently I sent him for a swing, too, when my weight came onto the rope: oops. But we were both ready for the jump and I was really pleased with it: because it represented me talking myself out of a foolish caution (“I don’t wanna fall, falling is scary,”) and into a wiser caution (“I don’t want to take an unprepared fall with that much swing, so here’s where I downclimb carefully, so I’m not above the anchor, and jump deliberately.”)

And yes, the climbing the rest of the day was great – hard but good and just about at my level. I did one bit of tricky, sketchy, balancey face climbing with tiny ledges that I was really psyched to have sent. I got a lead in that was good for me, and when we had the top rope set up on Coda, I struggled on it and pulled off some moves that felt really cool (and very, very hard – this is the first Gatineau 5.10 I’ve even tried, I think) and made it to the top with only a duck or two over to the easier ground to the right of the climb when I couldn’t get through a slippery move and knew I needed to get to the top to clear the anchor. The point being, I fought my way to the top, and made some moves I would have disbelieved if I wasn’t the one doing them.

But the bit I’m most proud of myself for is jumping off that route and onto the rope.

 

 

Oh, yeah. It almost never fails: a given climbing day will find one song running through my head as I climb. (Once, a couple of months ago, it was “X$PENS!V $H!T” by Die Antwoord; once it was “Keelhauled” by Alestorm; once it was the Marseillaise.) This time the song leapt into my mind just as I got above the third bolt on my warmup lead. Most of the way up, my head was silent, but then I got to the first actual move of the day, a step out wide to a small ledge, and then it came crashing in as I stepped out onto the edge, and stayed there for the rest of the day. I don’t even know why.

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