Sometimes I wonder if nature has it in for us climbers. The conflict between climbers and the forces of nature is an ancient struggle that one cannot avoid becoming uncomfortably familiar with if they invest just a modicum of time into the sport. I mean, we all know the routine: the frantic rifling through mixed and inconsistent weather reports calling for rain, snow, sleet and everything in between until we come across that one website calling for clear skies and a high of forty-five. For most of us, this is enough to warrant a day out at the crag, but even if you never find that golden weather report, it doesn't matter. Come Saturday morning, you'll be three exits deep on your local highway, fueled by the naive hope that some magical combination of wind direction, exposure and foliage kept your project safe from the slow creep of the wet. Such is the blight of the weekend warrior.
For three weeks prior, Tyler and I had tried to make plans. But Tyler is a busy guy, and flaky in the most curious way. He's the type of person who will cancel to go fly-fishing in Colorado, or mountain biking in Switzerland. However, I suppress my jealousy of his lifestyle on those rare occasions when he is actually home on a weekend because, quite frankly, climbing with Tyler is awesome. He is consistently psyched on not only climbing, but just about everything, and one of the most genuine people I've come across in my travels. Perhaps the most interesting part of climbing with Tyler is the extreme differences in our technique and style. We both approach the same problem very differently, and because we are often working the same problem, this results in a greater understanding of what is possible. Working a project with Tyler, a sort of mutualism develops between us, increasing both of our chances of success.
Still, success was not on our minds the Friday before we planned to embark to Lost City, as Tyler and I exchanged texts of reluctance regarding climbing conditions. We we're still psyched, but hesitant, and thrown out of sorts by the steady snow falling just outside our windows.
Lost City is a place I have grown strangely fond of. Perhaps it is the seclusion offered in its massive talus field. Situated behind the main ridge and guarded by a one mile hike through old woods, one develops a feeling absent all too often at a Gunks crag. You can stand atop a block facing New Paltz, and be greeted by an expanse of green pine and mountainous terrain, rather than the standard radio-towers and farmland that make-up the vistas at at the Carriage Road.
...
The morning brought sunny skies and wind which blew in a resurgence of excitement. I had a few lingering projects at Lost City as well, and if the conditions were just right (and my gut told me they were), today had the potential to be epic.
Halfway down I-87, however, the skies turned grey. Dark grey. A light fog developed as we hurtled through a light flurry of snow. Soon that flurry grew to a white out, snow falling ferociously all around us. Besides the rumble of six cylinders pounding southward, silence fell over the road. The penetrating quiet occupied not only our hearing, but our sight, as every direction offered the same dull shade of whitish grey. I would compare the sensation to sitting in a cloud.
"What is going on?" Tyler questioned incredulously, then followed with "Are we going climbing right now" We could just as easily have been within the bowels of a wormhole, heading towards some mysterious, wintry dimension.
Suddenly, the skies opened once more and sunlight broke through the dissipating fog. Nothing had changed in the wormhole, the road was still a grey expanse of colored lines, the road signs told us we were still on track, yet some uneasy feeling within our souls told us that, for better or worse, something was definitely different now.
...
The gate was locked, an obstacle Tyler and I hadn't anticipated. Two inches of steel piping separated our car and the road from a parking spot and a way in, but we had come so far, and we weren't about to turn around. We ended up parking at the Upper Trapps parking lot, and hiking a trail to Split Rock, adding 5 minutes onto our hike. Fifteen more minutes and we were breathing heavy under
Rabid Wolverine - V9. Disappointment flooded our bodies upon realizing that, after all we had done to get here, to do this, the worst hold on the problem (a half-pad, sloping gaston crimp) was slowly seeping water.
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| Inspecting the Wet Crimp |
After warming up, we quickly got to work on the project, working out our own specific beta. The location of the climb is strange: perched upon a suspended stone platform ten feet in the air, the edge and a brutal fall into rolling talus dangerously close to the landing. Nobody ever falls off, luckily, and yet it still adds some dangerous quality to the line. The climb is also incredibly unique in its style, and centers around a crucial double toe-hook on an arete, which requires you to arrange yourself horizontally on the rock, then control your weight to move vertically. Of course, the key to that control lies in maintaining grip on the gaston-crimp, which continued to seep despite our efforts in aquatic engineering.
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| Setting up for the Reach. |
Despite the less-than-ideal conditions, we were making consistent progress, and each new high-point that Tyler and I reached proved to vital to maintaining our frustrations. Then suddenly it happened, somehow things fell into place and with static fluidity Tyler linked through the moves, arriving at the top surprised, winded, and ecstatic. I followed in his footsteps with my own surprise ascent, nearly falling after the crux and then again on the fun moderate moves before the top-out, making the climb a bit more desperate than I would have liked.
Still it was my first V9, and Tyler's first time approaching and climbing a V9 in one session, which is good.
Just as the unlocking of a new move or the linking of a certain section can help motivate us to continue climbing a route or problem, unlocking a new grade or climbing at a higher level can motivate us to continue training.
Climbing can be very frustrating. When pushing ourselves on something at our limit, we dispense an considerable amount of emotion into the rock. The issue is that rock can only absorb that investment, never reciprocating, never lightening up, never changing except with the weather. Some days, however, as impossible as it sounds, the rock does. Some days it feels like a fleeting moment of perfection when everything falls into place was created just for you, for that time when you were trying your hardest, with snow squalls and locked gates and wet crimps behind you; the rock sees your commitment and for that ephemeral moment, it lets you win.
I never intended to simply record the frothy ego-spray of self-righteous climbers, I meant to document experiences like this, when through climbing you not only improve your abilities on the rock, but your understanding of life as well.
-WB
