Washington Column Direct Solo Retro TR (long)
Karl Baba
I hadn't wanted to post a formal Tr about this climb since such an
obvious record of my lack of judgement might be bad for biz-niz. It
was probably 15 years ago so I figure folks will understand. I wanted
to write it down better since it was a pretty classic adventure for me.
Foolish solo maneuvers are often inspired by some relationship angst.
Scaring the crap out of yourself cuts through layers of pettiness to
the core of our existence. This was one of those "girlfriend solos". I
was looking for an adventure that would help untie my obsessions.
Something I had previously soloed would be too predictable to have the
desired effect. Unfortunately, most of the routes I hadn't soloed were
unexplored for a reason. I hadn't heard of anyone climbing the Direct
Route on Washington Column (5.7) There was no topo available for it.
Over a dozen pitches of cracks and chimneys, the Direct Route (in the
goldline rope days) used to be one of the most popular routes in the
Valley. I figured, "How bad could it be.?"
I removed a page out of the old Roper guide that described the route,
and headed for the stone. The beginning of the route wandered a bit but
was innocuous enough. It was a beautiful day and my mind immediately
settled into the concentrated rhythm of route-finding and moving on the
rock. Route-finding was a continual issue. There always seemed to be a
couple cracks to choose from. I looked for fixed gear, worn lichen, pin
scars and other tell tale signs of a once-popular route in an attempt
not to get check-mated by some dead end choice.
I climbed higher and higher. Eventually, I found myself climbing a
couple pitches of 5.8 on ball-bearing rotten granite. Climbing over the
expected grade of a route is usually a bad sign in the world of onsight
soloing. I consoled myself with the fact that, if Steck Salathe is any
indicator, 5.7 used to count some pretty burly pitches amongst its
members. This route was definitely "Old School."
The dicey pitches ended at a ledge where I could take stock of my
situation. I was about 800 feet off the deck. The cracks above me
looked highly unlikely. The higher I looked, the worse things looked.
Enough doubt arose in me to scout the rock far to the right. I had a
moment of breathless realization when I recognized the landmark "Great
Chimney" of the Direct route about 100 feet to my right. UUUHHHŠ.. How
to get there? There was no way to reach the passage of salvation. I
would have to downclimb the dicey, rotten, 5.8 pitches to get back on
the route. UUUHHHH000Š.Checkmate!!!??
When soloing I try to keep the downclimbability of the route in mind
while proceeding. I remember several points of acknowledging passing
the point of no return in reaching my present location. A sense of doom
was closing in on me. Downclimbing 5.8 was one thing, downclimbing the
rotten, insecure mess that I was facing was quite another. Before
kissing my ass goodbye, I carefully explored every conceivable option,
no matter how crazy. I should probably be ashamed that calling for help
was quickly passed over as the option of choice, even if I died as an
alternative.
I started wrapping my mind around the craziest option of all.
I saw that I was about 35 feet above a small sandy ledge that led over
to the chimney. If I could get to that ledge, I would be as saved as a
man could get who was still below the crux while soloing a 1200 foot
route. The face between myself and the ledge was nearly vertical.
There were some very small features on the vertical wall. I chose my
poison and decided further explore the madness.
I had a few nuts, a couple of runners, and a 2 inch swami just in case
I needed to hang or cheat. I took off the swami, tied it to the
runners, and attached it all to a small RP Brass nut.
I prayed, repented, and did feverish incantations; then I placed the
brass nut in a crack and hand-over-handed down the webbing to its end,
which was still 22 feet over the ledge. I found a stance on a tiny
foothold. I was still too far above the ledge to jump. Climbing back up
the webbing and downclimbing the route seemed like suicide at the time.
There was a tiny crack behind a flake by my chest though. I made a
commitment.
I grabbed the flake for support and started whipping the webbing wildly
back and forth, over and over. I don't know how long I whipped the
webbing around. I had just made a leap of faith and I would whip the
damn webbing around for as long as it took. Eventually, I was blessed
with the requested miracle and the brass nut came flying out of the
upper crack! I was now in possession of the whole rig once again! I
placed the brass nut in the flake in front of me, tested it lightly,
and once again hand over handed myself down to the end of the webbing.
I was now at the moment of truth. My feet were still about 10 feet
above the ledge (my wide eyes were almost 16 feet above it!) There were
no more holds of any kind. I couldn't dream of reversing my course. My
only choice was to fly! Hanging by one hand at the end of the webbing,
I took aim for the ledge with the awareness that tumbling over the edge
of it would entail an additional 800 feet of flying. 10 feet was
enough. I programmed my legs to absorb the shock on impact, took a
deep breath and ŠŠŠ
I found my self crouched on the ledge and, after a short time, realized
that I didn't break my ankles when I hit. It's impossible to relive or
relate the relief I must have felt. The 5.7 crux chimney seemed like
the secure womb of my gracious mother after the ordeal I had undergone.
I was feeling totally redeemed when the chimney spit me out into a wide
brushy area near the top of the formation.
The problem was, there was still a steep pitch up a headwall between me
and the very top. There were four or five possible cracks to choose
from and they all looked hard. One must be 5.7, but which one? The most
promising one looked like the most committing. After another imaginary
chess game in my mind, I chose my crack, made my moves, and won the
match.
Like many games, the reward for victory was intangible (except for the
survival part) Naturally, I swore off the route. That is, until a
number of years later when I forgot my pain and soloed it again. With
better routefinding, I enjoyed the adventure more than the first time
(which isn't saying much) I remember bridging across the rotten Fat Man
Chimney and being grateful for my life and the people who loved and
supported me. As even more years have passed, I've learned to
appreciate life and love without contrasting it so sharply with the
alternatives. I hope the same for you as well.
Peace
karl
--
Guide Guy
http://member.newsguy.com/~climbing/
Phil Box
"Karl Baba" <gu...@NOSPAMnewsguy.com> wrote in message
news:120620021359534200%gu...@NOSPAMnewsguy.com...
> Washington Column Direct Solo Retro TR (long)
Thanks for that mate. I love it when you guys put me on the edge of my
seat. excellent adventure.
...Phil...
Sean
ground on a big boulder by the beach while on some type of mind altering
substance :)
Great trip report.
Dingus Milktoast
"Karl Baba" <gu...@NOSPAMnewsguy.com> wrote
> Washington Column Direct Solo Retro TR (long)
>
Puts a whole new meaning to the quip: jump, fly or die.
Well written and very entertaining as always Karl (ya crazy phuc!).
DMT
Jason Liebgott
"Karl Baba" wrote an amazing memory...
> Washington Column Direct Solo Retro TR (long)
made my pulse race just imagining you dangling off a brass nut... damn karl!
thanks for that... truly wonderful.
jason
dak_wak
was definitely "Old School."
Emphasis on ball-bearing, rotten, and "old school"!
Thanks for the TR Karl, even if retro. My palms were sweating.
Sounds like you took the left-hand crack from the rotten tree, up the
rotten-mossey chimney to a large pine (now festooned with multi-colored
slingage), then had to downclimb back to your right to get to the sandy
ledge below the big chimney. Earlier this year we tried to go the opposite
direction to avoid doing the chimney (foolish us). We left an old WC friend
as a momento of our passing.
Cheers,
Dave