Trip report (Long)
d_ve...@hotmail.com
husband, Alistair, and I had finally dispatched with all tiresome
obligations in Vancouver, the foremost amongst these, the completion
of two doctoral theses. We had toiled hard over the last six years to
complete degrees (although, admittedly, the toil of the academic
nature had been interrupted by toil of a vertical nature on nearby
Squamish granite at every possible opportunity). Now it was time to
move on, and leave student stomping grounds for bigger and better
things.....well, better paid, at least. But before leaving Canada
permanently for the land further south, the world of the real
tax-paying job and the prospect of becoming Respectable Members of
Society, we desired one last odyssey of a poor student variety. All
those hours between experiments spent reading "papers"
i.e. rec.climbing, had inspired us to explore the Western States and
become the best qualified bums on the road for a couple of months.
Now, before you go any further, I should point out that this account
is not filled with any great high derring-do, epic adventures on
remote peaks in monstrous electrical storms, blow-by-blow descriptions
of heinously difficult 5.13s, or anything else particularly
extraordinary. If that is what you seek, give up now! I climb at what
could be described as an excruciatingly moderate level, not due to
lack of experience or effort, but merely to lack of talent. I'm not
even much on leading and tend to rely on the far superior skills of
Alistair for the job; I admire greatly the maxim of Jeff Thompson and
Glen Payan of Squamish fame: To boldly toprope where others have led
before. I'm sure there are some more acerbic contributors to
rec.climbing of the "if you don't lead, you can't call yourself a
climber" ilk who are thoroughly disgusted that I am even bothering to
post this. However, the fact is that I derive an inordinate amount of
pleasure and satisfaction from not only the physical activity itself,
but from the wonderful places it leads you. I simply desire to give an
account of our summer adventures, such as they were, in the hope that
they might be moderately entertaining. If you are still interested,
read on.
So it was in a summer heat-wave that we loaded up the trusty
Veitchmobile (1986 Tercel hatchback, dwarfed by virtually every other
vehicle on the road, but able to out-do, on numerous occasions, far
larger behemoths equipped with 4WD and driven by "real men"), and
headed off east across the mountains of British Columbia.
After an overnight excursion into the North Cascades to view the
alpine meadows in full bloom, we arrived in the Okanagan valley town
of Penticton, intent on spending the next few days at the nearby Skaha
bluffs. It was the eve of the long B.C. day weekend and of the "Rage"
of Peachfest: 5000 teenagers had descended on the town of 20,000 or so
for a frenzy of loud music, swimming, drinking, screaming, and
generally being teenagers. The streets and beaches were packed with
throngs of bikini-clad girls and testosterone over-dosed guys
strutting their stuff. Accordingly, every conceivable lodging place in
the vicinity was packed to the gunnels with acres of throbbing
flesh. This presented no problem to cheap climbers, however, as we
drove the 10 km up into the hills to the climbers' unofficial
campground. Previous experience had taught us that a willingness to
use the two appendages attached to the bottom of your torso for a
short period of time can have delightful results. Some exploration
revealed a spectacular campsite perched on the edge of a deep canyon,
far beyond the yahoo-populated parking lot. Fine-looking cliffs
bordered half the site which afforded views of mountain goats on the
far side of the canyon, and of superb sunsets to the west in splendid
solitude. Best of all, it was free, and a mere 5 minute walk from the
car.
Skaha had always been the place to escape the We(s)t Coast sogginess
without having to go through the hassles of border crossings and
buying Yankee bucks at a god-awful exchange rate. I loved its
moderate, less-than vertical, thin edge routes on gneiss, undoubtedly
as this type of climbing required more technique than brute strength
(which I am seriously lacking). And....it was always a bit easy on the
grades, boosting a fledgling confidence immensely. I also enjoyed
hiking around the area, something that you inevitably do much of in
the process of getting lost at least once every trip.
Feeling most virtuous,
we were up and off the next morning before anyone else at the
campground had stirred. For those unacquainted with the area, the
hike in involves a climb up some 150 *large* steps to reach the
first set of bluffs. At the base of the steps is a delightful sign
which reads: "BEWARE. These steps were constructed for fit and
agile people - Rock climbers. They conform to no known building
standarts [sic!]. They were constructed to prevent erosion of this
hillside and not to provide easy access for everyone who felt like
walking up here. They will tax your heart going up and your joints
and balance coming down. USE THEM AT YOUR OWN RISK". Duly warned,
we staggered on up, feeling neither fit nor agile as even the relative
cool of the early morning seemed to produce buckets of sweat.
Clearly, a shady crag was called for, and we headed for Red Tail
Wall on the Fortress. This also happened to be nearby, aiding in our
recovery from the arduous approach hike. The day was spent enjoying
some of the many fine moderate climbs in the area on immaculate thin
edges. Aaaah, bliss! After the typical Squamish crack climbing, it was
most pleasant to climb some fun, well-bolted Skaha face routes. None
of them stand out as particularly memorable, but all were enjoyable at
the time. I plucked up enough courage to lead a couple of 7s and
otherwise followed Al up the remaining selection of 9s and 10s. One
departure from the norm was the stellar crackline Assholes of August
(5.9). Skaha gneiss has a tendency to form the most uncrack-like
cracks, and Assholes is a prime example: the beautiful crack line is
predominantly for gear placement (bomber nuts); the abundance of edges
on the face largely precludes the necessity of painful jamming. Highly
recommended! By early afternoon, the mercury had risen to close to 40
degrees (I'm a Kiwi, so can only do metric, sorry - you'll have to
convert), and we had gulped down most of our 8 litres of water (well,
OK then, that's about 2 gallons). After listlessly sitting in the
shade contemplating rock too hot to touch, we decided to call it a day
and scampered back to the car, dashing from one shady spot to the
next. A mad drive in the Veitchmobile (interior temperature about 10
degrees warmer still) to the beach ensued. The highlight of the day
was the positively orgasmic initial shock of total immersion in
Okanagan Lake - this is the second reason why I love Skaha. Of
course, a cold beer was next on the agenda, consumed on our cliff-top
aerie with a grandstand view of a magnificent scarlet sunset.
The next day, we rather foolishly decided to explore the far reaches
of the climbing area, and hiked an hour up to a crag called "Claim It
All Wall". This area has been recently developed and sports a large
number of user-friendly face routes in the 9-11 range. Some would
criticise the grid- bolting and they have a valid point but
nevertheless, I expect it is destined to become a hugely popular spot
despite the walk in (sport climbers being notoriously averse to this
kind of thing). I followed Al up a couple of 9s and then, feeling
confident, decided to have a crack at Third Sunday of the Month (5.8),
a face climb which traverses out to an arete halfway up. The crux is a
tricky clip far out left whilst clinging to a right-sided side pull -
quite balancy and trickier for shorter people like me- and the couple
of thin moves after that. Teetering there, my confidence completely
evaporated in the heat and I began to curse my husband for ever
introducing me to the sport. He encouragingly called up advice, which
was answered with a cutting "Yes, dear". So it goes! Finally, I made
the move and continued on up, shaking in my shoes. The top 8 metres is
much easier and has no protection. I'm not too great at run-outs, so
stupidly opted for an easy route off the face, which then left me
stranded on a small ledge on the arete. There was a blank wall between
me and the anchors, and the last bolt looked an alarmingly long way
below me. Down- climbing didn't look too appealing. After whimpering
for a while, I finally shimmied up to the anchors by virtue of a
particularly fragile branch of a dead tree, and promptly burst into
tears. It was my own fault - if I'd continued straight up, all would
have been fine. A learning experience. My efforts at pushing my
limits must have inspired Alistair, as he later led "Colors of the
Wind", an 11a that he had been eying all morning.
Once again, by mid-afternoon, it was too hot to climb, and this time,
we had a longish walk out with no water. The swim and following beer
were terrific, and we decided that these activities really made more
sense than climbing in that heat and departed the Okanagan to explore
other lakes and mountains in southern BC. We had several adventures
along the way, involving our first canoe trip (on Slocan Lake,
accessing Valhalla provincial park) and resupplying some stranded day
hikers in Kokanee Glacier park, who had done all the wrong things and
had a rather too close encounter with some grizzly bears. In general,
we mostly did other things (like hiking) on this trip, but since they
don't involve climbing, I won't bore you with them here.
A week later found us that the car park below the Bugaboos, in BC's
Purcell Range. I had been looking forward to this destination for
years. Alistair had climbed there on two previous occasions, each time
returning home with a grin on his face that lasted for at least a
week, and tales of great alpine epics on perfect granite spires in
stunning scenery. The previous year, when he had gone off to climb
there with the "big boys" (his regular climbing partners), I had
persuaded a friend to join me in surprising them after a week. Our
grand plan was to hike up and shower them with fresh food, beer and
wine. They would be so grateful for these gifts (so went the plan)
that they wouldn't mind taking us up some of the easier routes in the
area. My friend (who wasn't, by the end of the trip - but that's
another story) and I loaded up our packs with all these provisions and
climbing gear including a fairly decent scavenged rack, drove the 10
hours across the province and hiked on up towards the spires. This is
an absolutely brutal hike in... even more so when the pack is heavier
than anything you've ever carried before. Anyway, after one hell of a
grunt, we arrived, tired, but excited at the Kain Hut. To find that
the boys had departed the day before, cutting short their trip due to
bad weather! For various reasons (as in...I had decided that my
'friend' came from another planet and therefore was not an ideal
partner for Bugaboo rock), I gave the beer away to some climbers at
the hut who couldn't believe their luck, and walked out the next day,
vowing never again to carry alcohol for any man. When I finally
caught up with a worried Alistair, who had arrived home to find me
vanished without a trace, we worked out that we must have passed each
other on the highway going opposite directions. The disappointment of
that trip lingered for months - to have seen the spires and been so
close to climbing but unable to do so.... well, it had me fired up for
a second try.
So this year, I was already two up on the last one: I had hubbie in
tow and was carrying no beer! It was a fine, warm day as we set off,
after carefully wrapping the car up in chicken wire to prevent the
porcupines from chewing on the tyres and rubber hoses. The track up
into the area is only about 7 km long, but climbs nearly 1000m... and
the first 1.5 km is flat! However, it wasn't hard to find excuses to
stop - it is a spectacular trail with many photo opportunities. You
wind up the side of the mountain in pleasant forest, along a stream at
first, then across a boulder field and climb up through the
meadows. These overlook the steep and fractured Bugaboo glacier which
tumbles down chaotically from its origin in the middle of the great
cirque of towers above. In the middle of this ice river juts up the
Hounds Tooth spire, seldom climbed because of the need to cross the
unstable and heavily crevassed glacier to reach it. The Kain Hut
perched at the base of the glacial moraine below the great cirque made
by Snowpatch, Bugaboo, Crescent and Eastpost Spires, but we eschewed
the creature comforts of the hut (running water, gas stoves,
electrical lighting from a small hydro plant on the stream outside, a
loo with a view (pee only please), ... and a brand spanking new
incinerating toilet (later in the year we met the ranger stationed up
there, and his comment was "Boiling poo and pee - yum!")) for the
Applebee Dome camp further on up. This had a number of advantages over
the hut below: shorter approaches, less people leaving for/arriving
back from epics at ungodly hours of the night, and a less painful dent
in the wallet. But perhaps the best thing about Applebee was its
position: on three sides towered the massive, sheer faces of the great
granite nunataks, and on the fourth side, we looked out across the
Columbia valley to the Rockies. Of course, had the fine, warm settled
weather broken, we would have been down communing with that mass of
grubby humanity in the hut below in a flash. That evening, we
discovered that the guidebook had been inadvertently left behind in
the car. I suggested the simple expedient asking to look at someone
else's in the campground. Al refused - admitting to other climbers
that he was here without the "Bible" seemed to constitute a major
threat to his masculinity - so I went off to do the duty. The first
person I talked to squinted up at me through dark glasses and said "I
know you - you were the one here last year who had lost your
husband". It turned out that he had been one of the beer recipients -
it must have been memorable indeed! Anyway, he was happy to loan us a
guidebook to peruse, and even had some spare photocopies of routes we
could use, a late payment for the beer.
The next morning, we were up early to try the Kain route on Bugaboo
Spire. When this classic route was first climbed by the Conrad Kain in
1910, it was considered the most difficult climb of the era. Today, it
is regarded as not terribly technically challenging, but great fun
nonetheless (Grade III, 5.6). I was eagerly anticipating the famous
Gendarme pitch: the short, wildly exposed slab that is the crux of the
climb. The story of Kain leading across it in hobnail boots with a
hemp rope is legendary and I had been wanting to get up this route for
a number of years. However, it was not to be. El Nino did me in -
before I even reached the base of the climb. The approach ascends the
Bugaboo-Snowpatch Col, usually a plod up a hundred metres of 45 degree
snow. However, the unusual weather of the previous winter had left
the Col in dangerously icy condition with the snow vastly receded
exposing a large expanse of loose rock above. The bergschrund, often
covered, gaped at the bottom and fallen rocks littered the glacier
below. Al was game to give it a go, but I decided it all looked too
risky for my liking, and we turned back. Our consolation prize was a
3rd/4th class scramble to the top of Eastpost Spire, a small adventure
in itself for me being relatively new to such exposed scrambling. From
the top, I could gaze across to Bugaboo spire, disappointed not to be
on that summit instead. However, it was such a brilliant day that just
being on the top of any spire was magical.
On returning to our tents from Eastpost Spire, I saw a "squeaker" (our
knickname for the veritable plague of snafflehounds in the area) run
out from behind the tent. Curious, I investigated. Inside the tent was
a bag of trailmix that I had carelessly tossed inside out of harms
way, being too lazy to go and hang it with the rest of the food out of
squeaker range. The plastic bag had a good sized hole in it... and so
did the tent floor. The little devil had squirmed in between the
tightly pegged tent floor and the ground sheet to a point precisely
below the trail mix. It had then chewed through the floor of the tent,
through the plastic bag, and had chowed down on the chocolate and nuts
inside! We were a little more careful with our grub after this
not-so-gentle introduction to small North American critters.
The next day was beautiful again, and we headed off to climb Lions Way
(II, 5.6) on Crescent Spire, armed with somewhat blurry
photocopies. This turned out to be about as useful as the written
description for locating the climb i.e. bloody hopeless. Several hours
of scrambling and a few wrong start pitches later......Al was fuming
as he had done this before and had encountered no problems finding the
start of the thing. I was resigned. It was obvious that there was some
sort of jinx on me and the Bugs which spilled over to whomever I was
with. Tails between our legs in a decidedly non-lionish way, we
trudged back to camp, eyeing up the wonderful line of the nearby
McTech Arete (III 5.10a) that Al very much coveted. It wasn't to be
this trip, though. After a few short consolation pitches behind the
campsite at Applebee Dome, we decided that there just weren't many
climbs that I could do due to the snow conditions and so thought that
we might as well head down the next day.
With some regret, we trudged back down the trail the next morning,
carrying packs that seemed scarcely lighter than on the way up. We had
not been able to do any real climbing due to the unusual conditions,
which was a huge disappointment - as we were to soon be moving away
from Canada, who knew when we might be able to return? However, I felt
privileged to have merely spent a few days in this stunning area. We
had been truly blessed to experience such fabulous weather, a rare
occurrence in the Bugs. Simply lying in the sun at our camp, and
gazing up at the beauty and magnificence of the peaks and the glacier,
and watching the play of light on the granite walls at sunrise and
sunset was an experience that I'll always remember. Despite the lack
of vertical adventure, this trip into the Bugaboos was a highlight of
our summer adventures.
A week or
so later found us in the heart of the Canadian Rockies for some sport
climbing at Lake Louise. Several strenuous hikes and some enforced
touristing due to bad weather had whetted our appetite for the
vertical once more. The bluffs at Lake Louise sit nestled into the far
end of the lake with the classical Canadian Rockies background of
glaciers and banded peaks. At the other end of the lake site the
much feted Chateau, complete with authentic Canadian alpenhorn players
in lederhosen and funny hats with feathers. The tourists loved it
(Switzerland, Canada, what's the difference?). I thought it tacky
but not too bad..... until I realised that the same three tunes would
reverberate around the entire lake all day long. Just when you
thought they had packed up for the day... the first three
ponderous notes of Edelweiss (a good Canuck melody) echoed across the
water for the 73rd time. Aaarrgghhh!! Fortunately, the climbing more
than compensated for this aggravation. The steep, edgy routes suited
both Al and I, and after warming up on Top Gun (5.7), Al led one of
the finest 5.8 corners out there: Corner Journey. Almost a full rope
length, one encounters several intimidating-looking roofs on the way
up, but each of them is liberally peppered with beefy jugs and the
holds on each wall are as plentiful as the gear placements. All
efforts are observed by the gawking, gaping, gasping crowds below, and
once up, you enjoy a birds' eye view of the incredibly coloured lake
and its surroundings, with great photo opportunites of those on the
Air Voyage wall. A wild rappel over an enormous roof completes the
experience. Moving around the crags a little to the Comedy Corner
area, we did (or more correctly, Alistair led and I hangdogged)
several fun routes, including Public Enemy (10a), Turtle Mountain
(10a) and Rolling Stone (10c). We a;sp encountered a group of six
hard-women climbers having a fine time on these and some of the more
challenging routes. Between climbs, the main topic of conversation
seemed to be "Bobbi's boobs". Opinions were mixed: one woman fervently
declared that due to her act of "self-mutilation", Bobbi was no longer
a role model for her or her daughter, while another proclaimed the
asset enlargement to be freedom of choice. Debate became quite heated
until a visiting East Coast climber asked to take their photo; he had
never encountered such a feisty group of women at the crags
before. This immediately changed to the subject to what poses they
should be in and prompted a comparison of musculature amongst the
group - one woman refused to reveal hers on the basis that it was
"seriously scary". They were a raucous, kick-ass bunch - and highly
likable. It was excellent to see women out there climbing hard
together. As we climbed next to them, they were kind enough to trail
up a rope for Alistair to try Mardi Gras (11a) on top-rope. This
grade is at the limits of his abilities and he was delighted to get up
it clean.... and immediately regretted not leading it like the women!
The women were not the only diversion from climbing. The wide trail
around the side of the lake meanders along the base of the bluffs and
is shared by not only all pedestrians, but by groups of tourists being
led on horseback (evidently too feeble to walk or something). At one
point, we heard the thundering of galloping hooves below, then a cry
of "oooohhhhh fuck", then a loud crash and thump. A horse had been
spooked by all the crowds and had bolted with a tourist on board. The
tourist got a bit more of a wild ride than he bargained for, and was
tossed off down the steep bank, along with a pedestrian who jumped off
the bank to get out of the way of the horse. A full-scale emergency
helicopter rescue followed. We were told that this was the third
accident of this nature in two months.
The next day, we stopped at the Grassi Lakes crags outside of Canmore,
just south of Banff for our first taste of limestone climbing. What
fun! We raced through a bunch of 9s and low 10's in a late afternoon
climbing frenzy. Over a picnic dinner, the area became crowded with
after work warriors. I was appalled to observe one woman belaying a
man whilst having an emotional discourse with her friend, also
belaying. She remained completely oblivious to the troubles of the
climber, who, in attempting to circumvent a bulge, had gone completely
off-route and was teetering precariously a worrying distance above the
first bolt. In fact, she was so wound up in her conversation, that
both hands were gesturing well away from the rope (and she wasn't
using a Gri- gri). Eventually the climber sorted himself out and the
woman returned her brake hand to where it should never have left. I
breathed a long sigh of relief. Remind me never to climb with idiots
like that!
From the Rockies, we turned south and crossed the border
near Glacier National Park. A long drive down through big sky
country Montana and it was into Wyoming. The Tetons were on the
destination list, but frequent and violent late August thunderstorms
suggested that we should explore other areas of Wyoming
instead. Late on a Saturday morning, we rolled into Lander and made
a bee-line for the Wild Iris Mountain Sports store where we were
deluged with excellent advice on climbing options in the area which
made decisions difficult. Finally, we opted to head up to Wild Iris
for some more limestone experience out of the blazing heat of the
lowlands. This area sits up on the high plains at about 2800m and
is named after a prominent species of wildflower there. It is a
wonderfully airy place with an tremendous feeling of space as you gaze
out over the sweeping brown countryside below. The first priority was
to dry out: we had encountered a particularly nasty Teton electrical
storm that morning, and had succeeded in frantically packing up camp
and flinging gear into the safety of car in the few minutes before the
hail came lashing down.... only to find, a few hours later, that the
tap of our 10 litre water container had been jarred open in the
process, leaking its contents throughout the tent, bedding, food
etc. etc. The climbing was on a series of short limestone bluffs, and
was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon while our sodden gear dried
out. We headed to OK Corral Wall, the closest and most moderate of the
areas, and proceeded to rapidly fire off a string of 9s and 10s on the
delightfully pocketed rock. I'm afraid we don't know any names, as we
didn't have a guidebook, and relied on the occasional peek at those of
the next door climbing parties. Some locals recommended a slab 5.9 and
after looking around in vain for a slab, I was amused when they
pointed out a slightly less than vertical face. Obviously, Wild Iris
definitions differ considerably from Squamish ones. It was enjoyable
nonetheless. Alistair managed to lead an 11a onsight which
had him grinning like a Cheshire cat for the rest of the
evening.
The next day we ambled over to 5.10 Wall and did a series of
(surprise, surprise) 5.10s. I found them considerably more challenging
than the previous days efforts, as lacking the abundance of pockets at
the other area, they seemed more sequence dependent. Working them out
was an interesting exercise for me as most other places I had climbed
tended to be more forgiving of sequence. We met a couple from
Virginia, busy stick-clipping everything. This was a bit of a new
concept for me, coming from an area where wielders of such instruments
would probably be rode out of town by a lynch mob - not that stick
clips would be terrifically useful for the typical first bolt 40 ft up
a granite slab. To give them credit, they had both injured ankles
recently and were not keen to repeat the accidents. They were off on a
road trip for a couple of years... and were going to sport areas only,
as they owned no rack nor appeared to be the slightest bit interested
in such gear. This struck Al and I as fun.....for about a week. Oh
well, each to their own. Obviously this trip was exposing us to not
only rock, but climber types we had never encountered before.
By lunch time, the lure of limestone pockets had faded. I knew that
local climbers had developed the area (and well done for creating and
maintaining such fine trails and facilities) and used it extensively,
pushing the limits of difficulty, but the short routes began to seem a
little limiting to us and we were keen to sink our teeth into some
trad routes. Fremont Canyon beckoned, highly recommended by the Wild
Iris Mountain Sports staff. We left the coolness of the high plains
and returned to Lander, 1000m below. It was time for our first shower
of the trip. We splurged $3 each on a shower at an RV park (this was
big luxury spending for this trip!) and managed to successfully
negotiate the ridiculously complicated US phone system to call family
in NZ (have you ever tried placing a collect international call from a
pay phone? - it doesn't seem to be anyone's jurisdiction) Much
refreshed, we left for the canyon in central Wyoming. The land became
even drier as we crossed the plains, the almost relentless brown
broken in a few spots by shining white hills with names like the
Rattlesnake range, the Granite mountains, and (most euphemistically)
the Green mountains. It was through this desolate country that the
pioneers travelled in their covered wagons along the Oregon Trail last
century. Now there were some tough people! How many of us today would
be willing to endure such hardships, I wonder?
Fremont Canyon was named after the explorer John Fremont, the first
white man to explore the South Platte river which runs through the
gorge. As we drove towards the area, the canyon appeared suddenly, an
abrupt chasm which split the rolling sere plains. Walls of sheer,
polished brown granite dropped up to 150 metres to the sluggish river
below. This made climbing at Fremont a mite more adventurous than Wild
Iris: one rappels into the base of the route and climbs out again or
faces the ignominy of a long jug up the escape rope to reach the rim
again. That, or a long swim through thick, green, cattle-effluent
enriched water. Accordingly, we exercised a probably excessive degree
of caution and attempted only easier routes here. The first challenge
was to locate the climbs, not an entirely trivial task from above with
no other climbers around to ask (this place is great for its lack of
crowds - we only saw the odd tourist). Eventually, we identified some
lines in the Bridge area and did Halfway (5.7), Carpenters Corner
(5.8) and B-25 (5.9), near vertical finger-handcracks on strangely
smooth granite. It seemed unusual to me to have such steep crack
climbs with moderate ratings, but a preponderance of edges compensated
for the angle and made for exciting climbing. A smaller crag, The
Love Shack, was away from the main canyon which allowed a walk in to
the base of shorter face and arete climbs. Chunky Monkey (5.9) was a
balancy face climb on extremely polished granite which depended
absolutely on small edges - no friction there. In the heat of the
afternoon, I didn't fare too well on this, sweating fingers greasing
off holds regardless of chalk. Alistair had better luck on Slippery
Avocado (10a), a delicate arete, before we decided that a swim and a
beer were better options than sliming about on hot rock. En route to
the nearby Pathfinder Reservoir for a dip, I was entranced to see a
herd of pronghorn antelope grazing on a hillside. Startled by the car,
they gracefully bounded off as if on steel springs, distinctive white
backsides and black tails bobbing away into the distance.
After a few days, we tired of the heat and ambled off towards
Vedauwoo, on the higher, cooler plains in southeast Wyoming. We had
read much about the infamous wide cracks of the area. Thus Alistair
bounded up to the first climb with unbridled enthusiasm whilst I
approached with a certain degree of trepidation - Al being more of a
masochist when it comes to wide cracks than myself. Our first taste
of Vedauwoo rock was at the MRC complex, where we climbed the Right
Start (5.7) followed by MRC Left (5.7) as the second pitch. Alistair
had been keen to try the regular start here - which we did do later -
but I had wanted to take things easier (grade wise at least) until I
figured the rock out. It all seemed fairly straightforward, albeit on
skin-tearingly rough granite, until the last exit moves up a deep and
widening groove. My initial experience was typical of those yet to
come: a complete grovel. Later, on Edwards crack (5.7) which has a
similarly awkward end, I observed a woman belaying her newbie
boyfriend up. "How the hell do I get up this?", yelled
boyfriend. "Just do the fish wiggle", came the reply. Yes, the 'fish
wiggle' describes the move perfectly - shove your body in the slot as
best as it will fit, and wriggle on up. Climbing at Vedauwoo is a full
body contact sport. I wouldn't recommend attempting such manoeuvres in
skimpy shorts and a sport bra if you are at all attached to your skin!
As you can probably imagine, liberal cursing is mandatory in this
area. A fine example of this technique was demonstrated when Alistair
attempted to lead the first pitch of Friday the Thirteenth (10a). The
description of this climb in the guidebook is "Perform a boulder move
or two of 10a lieback in the thin crack which then widens to hands and
steady 5.8/9 for 60 feet". Now Al is generally solid on 10a cracks and
had not had a problem on easier ground in many years. The climb had
been highly recommended by locals and Al thought it would be a perfect
challenge, having warmed up well on easier fare. The crack is in a
right-facing corner with a polished slab (an anomaly for the area) for
the left foot. He started off, and found the first part to involve
solid 10a moves which were perfectly manageable. But as he went on,
things didn't improve. His left foot flailed about on the polished
slab, and hands threatened to slip out of the smooth crack (the only
places the rock seemed to be smooth at Vedauwoo was when you
desperately wanted it to be rough). A repetition of "Fu*k! Shit!
Oath!" began, like a skipping record, interspersed only with the
occasional "Fucking oath!" for variation. He began to stuff gear into
the crack every two feet.. and then began to curse as he ran out of
the right size. Finally, after taking to retrieve a lower peice or
two, and a manoeuvre of the Gallic nature (he pulled back up on gear),
he made it to the anchors and eventually back to ground level, tail
well and truly between his legs [Editors note: I blame too much sport
climbing on short routes, leading to a lack of endurance...]. But
don't think that he was the only one getting his butt kicked and ego
crushed. While I aspired to a wider and more colourful array of
expletives, the basic thrashing, moaning, whimpering form was the
same. The guidebook says of one climb: "Make sure there ain't no
church ladies strolling by when you hop on this grunter". An apt
warning.
There were some moments of light relief, though. Over a campfire, one
woman told us of her first ever lead on a 5.9 bolted route. She was
terribly nervous and was vastly relieved to make it to the first bolt,
a fair distance up. Shakily reaching around behind her harness, she
frantically grabbed for a quickdraw, an unfamiliar move for her, and
clipped it to the bolt. She pulled up the rope to clip it in, to find
that she had mistakenly attached her chalk bag to the bolt! Al and I
just about keeled over laughing at that one, but I doubt it was too
funny at the time. We were also enthralled to see a guy cruise on up
Fourth of July, a 12a overhanging finger crack then offwidth. While
it's common enough to see these grades being led in the bolted routes,
hard cracks are considerably rarer and I must say that the ease with
which the guy climbed and placed gear was a delight to behold.
One day was spent exploring the climbs at Poland Hill on the Rat Brain
(a remarkably apt name). Routes here included Kim, 5.6, which was
actually a somewhat enjoyable diagonal handcrack and Sugar Crack,
5.7-, reported to have "sweet stemming". Hmmmph. It wasn't my
favourite route of the trip and led me to new heights of cussing. Al
squirmed his way up the off-width, Fantasia (5.9) with a surprising
degree of aplomb and less profanity than usual and proceeded to lead
Piece of Dirt (11a), a delicate line beginning with a thin crack which
petered out into thin face moves. The crux seemed to be the balancy
transition from crack to face.
In a last ditch attempt to redeem my rather pathetic flailings on
various dark evil sandbagged slots, I decided to lead Glenn's First
Name, a 5.4 hand-crack which looked quite manageable (even after
adding the obligatory grade or two to the guidebook
rating). Hmmrphhh. Like so many of the climbs in the area, initial
difficulties were encountered merely getting into the slanting crack
from an undercut start - definitely not a low fifth class move. My
pysche was completely shot. I couldn't even get off the ground, the
most ignominious of defeats. It was time to move on and salve our
wounded skin and egos. Onwards south to Colorado!
Our plan had been to spend a week based near Boulder, exploring the
many climbing options nearby. An attempt to drive the short distance
and find a place to camp evolved into a hot and frustrating day stuck
behind behemoth RVs for hours on winding roads.... and coming up
empty- handed on the camping front. In desperation, we stopped to ask
advice at Neptune's in Boulder. The sales person was most sympathetic
to our tale of woe, but didn't have any better suggestions. He
recommended knowing someone in Boulder to free-graze off as the only
real solution to the camping shortages. Finally, foul tempers somewhat
assuaged, we drove all the way back up to Vedauwoo to the great
camping there and stayed a few more days. Heading south again, we had
abandoned any notion of staying near Boulder and drove into El Dorado
with a few hours in hand to explore. We lacked a guidebook so wandered
about aimlessly for a while before asking the advice of the locals. It
turned out that the Bastille Crack (5.7) was free, with only a guide
and his client three pitches up. Wow! What a great climb! Definitely
one of the best I have ever done. From the terribly arduous approach
(100 m of flat road) to the delightfully signposted descent, it was a
stellar experience. The fine-grained rock was kind to the hands, yet
had plenty of friction, and the climbing was superb - aesthetic
technical moves with none of the awkwardness or pain of Vedauwoo. It
felt like doing a vertical dance, ballet on rock. Every time there
looked to be a bit of a harder move, a key hold was in exactly the
place that you needed it to be. Ah, bliss! At the end of each pitch, I
would spend about 5 minutes raving about the climbing to
Alistair. Unfortunately, the guided client above us was obviously not
having such a fine experience. He appeared quite terrified, in fact,
and the guide didn't seem to be offering much in the way of helpful
suggestions. I felt sad that the poor guy's introduction to climbing
was such a traumatic one for him and thought that the guide's judgment
in hauling him up there was a little off.
On the way up, we observed a guy climbing the wall on the opposite of
the gorge, about 150 m high....without a rope. He looked completely in
control, but we both gasped as he swung out under an overhang, both
feet cutting loose and swinging in space. Then he let go with one hand
and lunged for a higher hold. A couple of seconds later, he was over
the obstacle and continued on easier ground. About an hour later, I
was sitting at the top of the 4th pitch, belaying Alistair, when a
head appeared over the lip of the cliff from a completely different
(and much more difficult) direction than we had come. It was the
soloist, so I said Gidday and how are you and he stopped for a bit of
a chat (to promote his upcoming slide show) before carrying on up and
passing Al. It turned out that he was Mick Fairchild? (one of the
local star climbers) and often soloed in the canyon. Good luck to him,
may he live a long life! The final pitch had two alternatives, a 5.7+
crack or a 5.4 slot. Al had been leading all the way, but asked if I
would like to top out up the easier pitch. It usually takes me a while
at any area before I feel confident enough to lead anything, but on
the El Dorado rock, I felt immediately comfortable, and so grabbed the
rack and went on up. It was so much fun! A fabulous way to end a
fabulous climb. After descending, we noticed that the route was still
free, and seriously contemplated going up it again - I was keen to
lead some of the lower pitches.... but time was too short. We shall
have to return - any offers of free-grazing, rec.climbers??? We left
El Dorado with enormous grins on our faces and headed east into Utah
and the desert.
En route to the desert sandstone, we stopped at the Fisher Towers and
walked up to have a look at these remarkable formations. Walking along
the base of these towers was like being in an immense outdoor
cathedral as they had an almost Gothic quality to them. You could
almost imagine them being a huge set of organ pipes, the walls
festooned with a lacy pattern, the result of rain dissolving the
material at the top, and the mud dripping down the sides and drying
there. We walked to the base of the largest of the Fisher Towers, The
Titan, and marvelled at the thought of people actually climbing these
great fins of (slightly) hardened mud. Content to leave these towers
to people crazier than us (although Alistair seems to have hatched a
warped plan, and wants to return to climb Ancient Arts, for some
peculiar reason), we went in search of a more solid target. This we
found in the form of Owl Rock, a short tower in Arches National
Park. The phallic looking formation can be summited via a single 5.8
pitch up a wavy, bulgy crackline. As Al led up the crack, hauling on
the most massive rounded jugs (you could quite literally wrap your
whole arm around them) a crowd of curious onlookers gathered on the
nearby roadside, videos whirring and cameras clicking. When he reached
the top, there was a hearty round of applause and considerable honking
of car horns. And Alistair hadn't even faked a fall in the Hollywood
tradition. I followed on up a most enjoyable route, and finally got to
stand on top of the pinnacle, doing my best Royal wave, and generally
posing shamelessly. It was a real blast to get to the top of a tower
that can't be climbed any other way, and the exhibitionist nature of
it all had us both on a high for the rest of the day. We're not
normally that way inclined.... it must have been the heat.
From Arches National Park, we spent an excellent week exploring the
extraordinary landscape of southern Utah and falling under the spell
of the desert. Lacking any information on routes in the area, we
didn't climb any more, but were enthralled by the possibilities
there. One highlight was visiting Deadhorse Point State Park, near
Moab to see the view. This was an absolute must after reading Chuck
Pratt's account of desert climbing : "The View From Deadhorse
Point". For those of you who haven't read this fine piece of work, it
is in the 1970 Ascent, and has been reprinted in The Games Climbers
Play. As for the view - of the stunning canyonlands, the cliffs of
layered sandstone a multitude of hues ignited by the evening light,
the Colorado forming a great ox-bow 600m below - it was simply one of
the most amazing I have ever seen. Worth the forking out the $5 entry
fee and putting up with the hordes of tourons.
From Utah, we headed out to California and north back to Canada. There
was no more climbing, but many "we'll have to get back and climb
there" experiences: Zion, Red Rocks, the High Sierra, Yosemite. Back
in Canada, and waiting for the requisite visas to arrive before moving
south, I had plenty of time to reflect on the summer's travels. 15,000
km travelled and nine climbing areas visited. Disappointments and
triumphs. Inspirational people met, and idiots hopefully never to be
met again. Exposure to a wider range of climbing and climbers. Life on
the road as a climbing bum was an educational experience. I'd do it
again any day!
Postscript: We have now moved to the Bay area and started exploring
the myriad of opportunities in this part of the continent. Christmas
at Joshua Tree and several excursions to the Pinnacles and Castle Rock
have us off on the right track. We are eagerly awaiting warmer days so
that the Yosemite and High Sierra adventures can begin. We are always
keen to meet new climbing acquaintances so if you are interested, you
can contact me at d_ve...@hotmail.com.
Dallas Veitch, January 1999
-----------== Posted via Deja News, The Discussion Network ==----------
http://www.dejanews.com/ Search, Read, Discuss, or Start Your Own
Avajane
H.J. (Jim) Leininger,E50A
simply desire to give anDallas Veitch, January 1999
> -----------== Posted via Deja News, The Discussion Network ==----------
> http://www.dejanews.com/ Search, Read, Discuss, or Start Your Own
Dallas / Alistair, sounds like you folks really had quite an adventure
before we met you!!! Didn't know you were so widely travelled, but it
sounds like a great trip.... Hope to go climbing with you again real
soon...