Retro TR: Keeler Needle Blind Date
Brutus of Wyde
03 August, 1989
A good partner is hard to find.
Alex Schmauss decides that, due to work commitments he will not be able
to go up Keeler Needle with me. Rather than simply leaving me high and
dry, however, he locates another partner, Lynn Wheeler, who is working
in Mammoth on a fire crew.
Three days before leaving for Keeler, I go into ketosis. Incomplete
protein metabolism resulting from a ten day crash diet is instantly
recognized for what it is. Driving on Interstate 580, I am beset with
a blindingly excruciating headache and accompanying acetone breath. I
weave over to an offramp, negotiate a few blocks, and stumble into a
Jack-in-the-Box for a breakfast croissant and two large orange juices.
Seven pounds lost enable me to once again crank one-arm pullups, and to
attack the East Face of Keeler Needle, all free, off the couch, with no
training or warm-up climbs.
01 August 1989 -- I meet Lynn Wheeler for the first time in Mammoth
Lakes... an offwidth master who this spring led Twilight Zone in
Yosemite, Lynn is confident of everything except his partner. We drive
to Whitney Portal, an uncomfortable silence between us, and crawl into
sleeping bags beside the parking lot, watch alarm set for a 6 am start.
Lynn, with an enormous 70 pound pack, raises an eyebrow but makes no
comment at my stripped-down, 38-pound pack and incredibly slow turtle
pace.
"Boy am I psyched!" I say as I straighten up from trying to puke.
Silence and difference in styles stand like a block wall between us
throughout this venture: I am going in slowly, having driven from sea
level the previous day, pack stripped of all unnecessary items based on
years of blitzkrieg trips in the High Sierra... Lynn, out from
Colorado, living at 7,000 feet all summer, goes in heavy and fast, but
finds himself frustrated because slowpoke Bruce with the tiny pack
knows the tricks of the approach -- where to cross the stream, what
trails to avoid, where to head up above the canyon floor on the
Ebersbacher Ledges to avoid impenetrable brush.
The tension between us is a palpable thing, at times simply manifesting
itself in a gesture, a subliminal move of body language, at times
erupting into white-hot, but still subsurface, animosity, as we discuss
what tactics to use on the climb.
Lynn's whole-wheat-not-instant noodles take 30 minutes to cook at the
bivy below the face. CANNED food! I've gone extravagant this trip and
purchased state-of-the-art, freeze-dried Mountain House Stroganoff.
Boil water and it's done. We're out of fuel by the time Lynn's noodles
are done. I have to use the excess noodle water for preparing my
dinner, reflecting that tomorrow's dinner will be dry Ramen noodles
which I will have to eat like pretzels.
Lynn wants to take more food on the climb than I have brought for the
whole trip... and I, anticipating the desiccating Sierra sun and dry
air of the current weather pattern, want to take two liters of water.
We compromise, but the pack is still far too heavy (to my mind) at the
base of the rock the next morning. Halfway up the snowy start Lynn
decides (I TOLD you so!) that he will not need his parka. He tosses it
off, and we watch it disappear, forever, into a snow moat.
For the degree of conflict between us, we mesh into a fast-moving,
efficient team once we reach rock.
Lynn fires up a short 5.10 roof. I brachiate a 5.9 overhang. The 5.10b
crux Lynn handles smoothly. I struggle, but don't fall.
Looking back halfway up the wild face, the bivy site is a tiny blue dot
on the talus field. A routefinding error (by Lynn) costs us an extra
belay. I say nothing. The mistake gives Lynn another of the most
difficult pitches (he has borne the brunt of the strain on the climb,
drawing all the hardest leads.) By mutual agreement, I take over the
lead of the 5.9 squeeze pitch, the last barrier (Lynn allows a mutter
of "good lead") to the easier summit pitches which seem to go on and on.
At 2:30 PM, we pause 5 minutes at the summit of the needle, then sprint
over the top of Mt. Whitney. I guide Lynn down the Mountaineer's
Route, familiar from uncounted descents from these summits, these
walls.
We reach camp at the last light of day with 1 cup of water and several
pounds of food remaining.
In celebration, I break out a surprise tiny bottle of wine I've had
cooling in the snow all day.
Lynn is not impressed.
END OF FILE
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Bob Cable
I took me 7 years after my first attempt (a slow party in front, but
got Day Needle instead) to finally get it. Heck, we probably were not
even at the squeeze by 2:30. Luckly I have the mountaineers route
memorized in the dark. Don't know if I could do it by the bright of day.
Bob
Walter Pienciak
Brutus of Wyde <brutus_...@my-deja.com> wrote:
>"Boy am I psyched!" I say as I straighten up from trying to puke.
Wow, an arrow straight to the dark heart of this sport.
;^)
Walter